Five weeks. Five damn weeks before the wedding, and I was teetering between mild panic and a full-blown existential crisis. It wasn’t the marriage itself—no, that was another disaster entirely—but the whole circus leading up to it. Our so-called wedding planner, Janelle, who Leo’s mother had hired, kept hounding me for meetings I absolutely did not want to attend. Every time she called, it was the same spiel about checking decorations or going over flower arrangements. As if I cared about the precise shade of ivory in a tablecloth.
The morning she called again. I was sitting at the kitchen counter, typing away on my laptop, shoveling in a breakfast that could barely be classified as food. Leo, ever the composed billionaire, stood by the coffee machine, pouring himself a fresh cup, his usu
