The Wedding Planner's Regret

Chapter 4 - Collision Course

“I won’t pretend it’s not a little complicated,” Camille continued. “But you’re a professional. I respect that. And I trust you to handle this with discretion and professionalism.”

Ava tilted her chin slightly. “You don’t need to worry about professionalism, Camille. I deliver excellence. Always. And Nathan is in the past, if I must add”

“Good,” Camille said, smiling again. “Because I’m not just planning a wedding. I’m launching a lifestyle brand. Camille Hart Interiors. This wedding will be the event of the year. It’s going to be covered by Vow & Vogue. I need someone who can execute my vision perfectly.”

Ava nodded once. “Let’s talk vision, then.”

But just as she reached for her tablet, the door opened.

And in walked Nathan Hart.

Older. Sharper. Dashingly handsome in a tailored navy suit.

His gaze locked on hers like a slow collision and for a breathless second, the room disappeared.

“Ava,” he said, breath catching on the name.

She stood slowly.

“Nathan,” she replied coolly, wondering how best to exchange pleasantries. Was she to remain seated or rise to give him a warm hug.

Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Electric. Other gazes in the room were fixed on them. Annalise, Camille, Brittany – Camille’s assistant and Nathan, with a young man walking behind him, brief case in hand. He appeared to be Nathan’s executive assistant, if she wasn’t mistaken

For a moment, the room faded. The table. Camille. The city humming beyond the window. It was just the two of them, standing on the edge of an old wound.

And then Camille, oblivious to the tectonic shift, clapped her hands together. “Perfect. Now that we’re all here, shall we begin?” she added after rising to peck his lips in a most assuming way. Nathan appeared embarrassed and his gaze remained fixed on Ava. It made her feel utmostly uncomfortable and she was forced to look away.

Ava forced a smile.

“Let the wedding planning begin.” Annalise declared, loudly, shifting the room’s focus back to the day’s agenda.

***************************

“Please, have your seat, Mr. Hart,” the eager assistant said, drawing out the chair beside Camille and flashing an overly polite smile.

“Thank you,” Nathan replied curtly, easing into the seat.

His posture was straight, composed—but Ava saw the telltale signs. The way his fingers tapped lightly on the table. The subtle adjustment of his cufflinks. The familiar gesture of touching the edge of his Rolex—nervous habits she vividly remembered.

Leopard spots truly remained unchanged afterall.

Ava leaned back slightly in her chair, with one brow arched, and her lips curved into a cool, wicked smile. She had him pegged.

Nathan glanced up and caught her expression. For a brief second, the corner of his mouth twitched in a familiar manner, she perceived it was something between recognition and regret.

Camille, perched elegantly beside him in her pearl-white power dress, was watching the entire interaction like a hawk dressed for couture war.

“Shall we proceed?” Brittany, Camille’s P.A, asked brightly, a bit too loudly—as if trying to cut the tension with her voice alone.

She noticed the way Camille's gaze darted between Ava and Nathan, curious, calculating. Was it jealousy? Suspicion? Habit? Brittany wasn’t sure—but something was definitely off.

She leaned in close to Nathan, the deep V of her neckline offering a convenient distraction. She whispered something in his ear, her red-manicured fingers briefly resting on his arm.

Nathan let out a soft chuckle.

Ava didn’t flinch. She just inhaled slowly through her nose and adjusted the spine of her planner.

“Yes, we certainly may,” she said smoothly, voice dipped in elegance and ice.

Brittany cleared her throat, flipping open her notes. “Right, so as earlier discussed, the Fairchild-Hart wedding is slated for August 24th. We’re working with a twelve-week timeline for concept-to-completion, which, while ambitious, is absolutely feasible given our client’s... vision and budget, and our event planner’s impressive track record.”

Camille smiled, coldly and sharp. “Vision is everything, isn’t it, Ava?”

Ava met her gaze without blinking. “Yes. And execution is what separates fantasy from fiasco.”

Nathan coughed lightly, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

Camille narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s why we chose you. After all, who better to orchestrate a fairytale than someone who waves a wand to create magic out of thin air?”

Touché.

Annalise, seated quietly beside Ava, shot her a look—half warning, breathe girl, breathe.

Ava folded her hands over the table, a picture of polished restraint. “Then let’s begin with priorities: venue, guest count, and Camille’s – the couple’s desired aesthetic.” She corrected herself.

“Royal romance with a touch of modern opulence,” Camille said breezily. “Think Versailles meets Soho House. And of course, we want the best vendors—floral installations, aerial performers, customized aisle runner, imported peonies... You understand. I want it all”

“I always do,” Ava replied.

Nathan spoke for the first time in minutes, his voice lower than she remembered. “We trust your team will deliver.”

Ava turned to him slowly. “You always did.”

Silence fell again. Tense. Intimate. Dangerous.

Camille’s smile twitched at the corner.

Brittany blinked rapidly. “Great. So... guest list next?”

“Yes, indeed. We’ll be expecting about 2,000 guests,” Camille said, her tone glossy and rehearsed. “The intent is to use the Hart Château and its prestigious hotel just a few blocks from here. That way, our guests can be lodged on-site. We’ll also need chauffeurs and translators assigned to every convoy. Some of our guests are flying in from Monaco, Paris, and Seoul.”

Ava nodded once, her pen idle over her open notebook. For the first time in her career, she wasn’t listening. Not really. Her gaze flicked again to Nathan.

Nathan wasn’t even pretending to care. He sat leaned back, eyes focused on his tablet, occasionally scribbling notes or muttering something to the young assistant beside him. His suit was perfectly tailored, his cufflinks gleaming in the light, but his attention was anywhere but on the woman talking about their wedding. He seemed distant and quite indifferent.

Ava blinked, forcing herself to refocus. Annalise, bless her, was already scribbling furiously beside her, capturing every detail Camille had so proudly rattled off.

“And the palettes,” Ava said smoothly, finally cutting in. “What color scheme do you have in mind?”

“Emerald green, blush pink, and gold—obviously,” Camille answered, her smile tight. “I’ve already created a mood board on Pinterest. I’ll share the link.”

Ava allowed herself a gracious nod. Of course Camille had a Pinterest board.

She turned to Nathan slowly, carefully. “And what about you, Mr. Hart? Thoughts on the palette?”

He didn’t look up. “Yes... it’s fine. That works,” he said, voice low, eyes still averted.

Ava’s brows lifted—just slightly. She knew better. He hated blush tones.

“I see,” she replied, letting the silence hang for a beat too long.

Camille’s eyes narrowed.

Nathan finally looked up and met Ava’s gaze across the table. “Is there a problem?”

Ava’s lips curled faintly. “Not at all. I simply assumed you’d want to weigh in—seeing as it’s your wedding too.”

Camille’s voice snapped through the air like a silk whip. “We’ve discussed it. Haven’t we, Nathan?”

He looked at Camille. Then back at Ava. “Yes. It’s... fine.”

Ava tilted her head slightly. “Of course.”

But Camille wasn’t finished.

“I’d appreciate if you don’t attempt to walk over my head, Ava,” she said coolly. “This isn’t one of your charity cases or minimalist elopements. This is a Fairchild-Hart wedding. I know exactly what I want.”

A flicker of something passed over Ava’s face, but she didn’t break her composure.

“Duly noted,” she said. “My job is to interpret your vision. Not challenge it.”

“Good,” Camille replied with a tight smile. “Because I’ve waited a long time for this moment. And I intend to make it perfect.”

Ava returned the smile. “Perfection is our standard.”

Annalise glanced sideways, sensing the temperature drop by at least ten degrees.

“Well,” Ava continued, smoothing a page in her notebook, “we’ll move on to the floral direction next. Are you leaning toward peonies, garden roses, or something more architectural? Perhaps orchids?”

Camille sat straighter. “Peonies. Imported. Only in the exact shades of blush and ivory. No substitutes. And I want a suspended floral tunnel for the aisle entrance—ten feet tall, with cascading vines and hanging crystals. Think Versailles... but more romantic.”

“And less subtle,” Ava murmured, almost inaudibly.

Nathan coughed again. Annalise bit the inside of her cheek.

Ava straightened, poised and polished. “Noted. I’ll have our floral partner present sketches and samples next week. We’ll also run a preliminary guest list filter before discussing seating charts and security protocol.”

Camille nodded. “Wonderful.”

Nathan stood abruptly. “I have another meeting in ten. If we’re done here?”

“We are,” Ava said smoothly, rising too. “We’ll follow up with a summary deck and timeline by Monday.”

Camille looped her arm through Nathan’s, far more possessively than necessary. “Thank you, Ava. It’s been... enlightening.”

Ava’s gaze held Nathan’s for a beat longer than it should’ve.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It certainly has.”

“Tell me I did great,” Ava said as she stepped through the glass doors of her office, her heels clicking against the marble floor like punctuation marks to her unraveling thoughts.

Annalise followed behind, arms full of folders and her tablet. “You were flawless,” she said without missing a beat. “Even when Camille went full ‘I-own-the-room,’ you didn’t flinch. That was master-level grace under fire.”

Ava gave a tight smile. “That’s what I’m known for. Grace... and gritted teeth.”

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. Jonas. Of course.

She swiped to answer. “Jonas, I don’t have time for one of your unsolicited wardrobe critiques right now—”

“Tell me everything,” he interrupted, eyes wide on screen, already reclined dramatically in what looked like a villa in Capri. “Spill the tea. The gossip. The facial expressions. Who gasped first—you or him?”

Before Ava could answer, a half-naked woman strolled past the camera in the background. Ava raised an eyebrow. “First off… who is that?”

Jonas sighed with faux exasperation. “Ignore her. Ingrid or Ilsa or something. Ava, I need focus. You can judge my love life later. Right now, I need you to walk me through every soul-shattering, eyebrow-raising second. I’ll repay the favor when I’m back in a few weeks.”

Ava sank into her office chair, exhaling for the first time since they’d left the Hart meeting. “Well, where do I even begin? Asides from the fact that I forgot every single detail Camille said about her dream wedding, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

Annalise stifled a laugh as she dropped the meeting notes on Ava’s desk.

Jonas leaned in closer to his screen. “You forgot? You? Ava Martinez? Miss Every-Detail-Matters?”

“I was distracted,” Ava muttered.

“By...?”

She hesitated, the words lingering on her tongue before tumbling out. “He looked… older. And more dashing than the photos. The man ages like a Bond movie—just taller. And smugger.”

Jonas gasped. “Oh no. You still like him. I knew it.”

“I do not like him,” Ava snapped, far too quickly.