The Groom's Dove

001 ~The Planner~ My door lock clicks and Sophie breezes in, juggling two coffees and her massive tote bag. "I swear to God," she announces, "if I see one more i********: reel of proposals, I'm going to lose it. This guy literally hired a flash mob. A flash mob, Dove. In this day and age!" "You say that like flash mobs are old fashioned," I say, reaching for the coffee she's offering. "Flash mobs peaked in 2012 and should have stayed there." Sophie dumps her bag on the velvet settee I keep for nervous brides. She's been my assistant for three years and my best friend for five, which means she's earned the right to judge my life choices. "Also, your office looks like a human and P***rest had a baby. An expensive, highly curated baby." "Thank you?" "It wasn't a compliment." She snorts. "Normal people don't have fresh peonies every week." "Normal people don't plan thirty weddings a year." She studies me over her coffee cup. A milk latte, extra shot, Sophie doesn't do anything halfway. "How are you, really?" "I'm great. Why?" "Because I saw Derek's i********: last night." My stomach does the thing it does when I'm about to walk into a room full of people who are all staring at me. I used to believe in fairy tales before Derek taught me that princes are just guys who'll leave you for their Pilates instructor. "I don't follow Derek." I say. "I know. But I do. Hate-following is a valid hobby." She pulls out her phone. "Do you want to see?" "No." "He and Pilates Kathy had a baby. A boy. They named him Reuben." I take a long sip of coffee to avoid responding. It's been two years since Derek moved out of our apartment and into Kathy's arms, and I'm fine. Totally fine. The fact that he's now married with a child while I can't even get through a first date without mentally redesigning the restaurant doesn't mean anything. We weren't right for each other. I wanted romance. He wanted someone who could support her body weight mid air. We all got what we needed. "So what's on the agenda today?" I ask before she can say anything else. The morning passes in the familiar rhythm I've cultivated. Answering emails, confirming vendor orders, adjusting timelines. At ten, the Madison couple arrive. Emma and James, both five, both teachers, both looking at me like I'm about to work actual magic with their $20,000 budget. I can work magic with $20,000. We spend an hour together, and by the time they leave, Emma's crying happy tears and James is looking at me like I'm a miracle worker. I walk them to the door, promising to send a full proposal by Friday, and watch them head down the street hand-in-hand. Sophie appears at my shoulder. "You're really good at this." "I know." "No, I mean you're really good at seeing what people need. At making them feel special." She pauses. "Why don't you let someone do that for you?" I close the door. "Because I'm too busy doing it for everyone else." "Dove..." "Soph..." My phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer. Scammers and telemarketers make up eighty percent of unknown numbers these days, but something makes me pick up. "Dove Pierce." "Miss Pierce." The voice is female, fearless and precise. Every word is chosen carefully. "I was told you're Chicago's finest wedding planner. I certainly hope that's true, because I have a very particular situation." I grab a pen. "How can I help you?" "My name is Charlotte De Vos. I'm getting married in six months, and I need absolute perfection." The name tickles something in my memory, but I can't place it. "Six months is a tight timeline for..." "Money is truly no object," she interrupts smoothly. "I've already secured the Chicago Botanic Garden for the ceremony. Vogue has confirmed coverage. I have three hundred guests and very specific expectations. What I need is someone who can handle complex family dynamics, vendor management, and the pressure of a very public event." Wow! The Chicago Botanic Garden books years in advance. Vogue coverage means this is major. Three hundred guests means a budget I can't even estimate without more information. It also means red flags. Six-month timeline, complex family dynamics... very public event. This screams difficult client. But this could also make my career. "I'd love to hear more," I say, keeping my voice professional. "When would you like to meet?" "Tomorrow. Two p.m. My penthouse." She rattles off an address in the Gold Coast that makes my eyes widen. That building has a doorman who probably makes more monthly than I do quarterly. "Can you make that work?" "Absolutely." "Excellent. I'll send you the building access codes. Don't be late. I have a very full schedule." She hangs up without saying goodbye. I stare at my phone. "Who was that? You look like you've seen a ghost." "Charlotte De Vos just hired me. Maybe. She wants a consultation tomorrow." "Charlotte De Vos?" Sophie's already on her phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Holy s**t. Dove. Holy s**t!!" "What?" She turns her phone around. i********: profile. @CharlotteDV, 2.3 million followers. The photos are immaculate, Charlotte in designer clothes, Charlotte at charity galas, Charlotte looking effortlessly perfect in a way that probably takes hours of effort. The most recent post is from yesterday, a massive diamond ring on a perfectly manicured hand, caption reading "When you know, you know." "She's an influencer," Sophie says, scrolling rapidly. "Daughter of Preston De Vos, the real estate guy, owns half the buildings downtown. This wedding is going to be everywhere!" My mouth goes dry. "She said Vogue confirmed coverage." "Because of course they did. This is the society wedding of the year. If you plan this..." Sophie trails off, but we both know what she's thinking. If I plan this wedding successfully, I'll never need to worry about clients again. I'll be the planner who did Charlotte De Vos' wedding. If I f**k it up, I'll be the planner who ruined the most anticipated society wedding Chicago has seen in years. "This could make you," Sophie says quietly. I look at Charlotte's i********: again. In every photo, she's smiling, but something about the smile doesn't reach her eyes. Or maybe I'm projecting. Maybe I'm seeing problems that don't exist because I'm nervous about the opportunity. I should call her back. Confirm the meeting. I dial the number she called from. It rings four times before she picks up. "Charlotte De Vos." "Hi, it's Dove Pierce. I wanted to confirm our meeting tomorrow at two." "Of course. I'll have my doorman expecting you. Bring your portfolio and your best ideas. I'm not interested in cookie cutter proposals." "Understood." "Oh, and Miss Pierce? I should mention that I've already interviewed three other planners. None of them understood my vision. I hope you'll be different." The implied threat is clear. Impress me or you're gone. "I'm looking forward to discussing your vision," I say evenly. "Wonderful. See you tomorrow." This time she does say goodbye before hanging up. I set my phone down carefully. "Well?" Sophie prompts. "She's already interviewed three other planners and rejected them all." "Of course she has." Sophie chews her bottom lip, something she only does when she's worried. "Em? Just... be careful with this one. Something about her feels off." "I don't know. Maybe I'm being paranoid." She gestures at her phone. "But look at her engagement photos. Look at her fiancé." I take the phone. The engagement post has 75,000 likes. The next post is a photo of Charlotte with a tall, dark-haired man in an expensive suit. His face is not quite clear but I make out the good bone structure. It feels like the kind of face you forget five minutes after meeting. The caption reads "My forever person @LiamAshford" "He looks fine," I say. "He looks miserable." "It's fine," I tell Sophie, handing back her phone. "Lots of guys don't like being on social media. It doesn't mean anything." Sophie doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't argue. "Just promise me you'll trust your gut. If something feels wrong..." "Then I'll walk away." I promise it easily because I believe it. I have standards. But I also have rent. And student loans.