The Heart That Wouldn’t Surrender

Seraphina’s POV

I was seventeen when I trusted a doctor.

Eighteen when I learned that trust could erase a future. Some betrayals do not leave bruises. They leave silence where dreams used to live.

I adjust the ivory silk draping for the third time, my practiced eye catching the slightest imperfection in what everyone else would call flawless. Today’s venue is a sprawling garden estate overlooking the Hudson River. The interior design shimmers under the soft golden lighting I spent two days perfecting. Every detail whispers romance: the cascading white orchids, the crystal chandeliers suspended from century-old trees, the pathway of rose petals leading to an altar that looks like something from a fairy tale.

Too bad I stopped believing in fairy tales years ago.

“Seraphina, this is absolutely magical!” gushes Mrs. Victoria Reynolds, the mother of today’s bride. Her diamond earrings catch the light as she gestures wildly at the transformation of her family’s estate. “My daughter will cry when she sees this. Happy tears, of course.”

I smile, the practiced expression I’ve perfected over three years of running Enchanted Moments. “That’s exactly what we’re aiming for, Mrs. Reynolds. Today is about creating memories that will last a lifetime.”

The irony of my words isn’t lost on me. I create forever moments for others while my own heart remains locked behind walls built from shattered promises and bruised skin. But business is business, and heartbreak pays exceptionally well when you channel it into making other people’s dreams come true.

My phone vibrates with a text from my assistant, Emma: The photographer is here early. The bride’s getting nervous. And that hot groomsman from yesterday is asking about you again.

I roll my eyes. The groomsman-Tyler something, had spent most of yesterday’s rehearsal trying to get my number, completely missing the subtle but firm signals that I wasn’t interested. Men like him saw wedding planners as easy targets, assuming we were hopelessly romantic and desperate for our own happily ever after.

If only they knew the truth.

“Seraphina!” The bride herself appears at my elbow, radiant in her custom beaded gown but with panic in her eyes. “The flowers for my bouquet, they’re not exactly what I pictured. They’re beautiful, but—”

“But they’re not perfect for the most important day of your life,” I finish gently, already pulling out my phone. “Give me ten minutes.”

This is what I do. I fix things. I solve problems. I make everything perfect for everyone else while my own life remains a carefully managed disaster.

As I speed-dial my florist, I catch sight of my reflection in the ornate mirror positioned near the bridal suite entrance. Twenty-six years old, and I look like I have it all together. My burgundy dress hugs my curves in all the right places, my dark skin glows with health and expensive skincare, and my hair is styled in an elegant updo that took my stylist an hour to perfect. To everyone watching, I’m successful, confident, beautiful.

What they can’t see are the scars.

The physical ones have faded, the bruise on my shoulder from where Marcus pushed me into the wall, the scrape on my palm from when I fell trying to get away from Kevin’s indifference. But the emotional scars? Those run deeper than any surface wound.

“Miss Sera!” A small voice interrupts my brooding. I look down to find Sophie, the flower girl, tugging on my dress with chocolate-stained fingers. She’s five years old and still believes in princesses and happy endings.

I used to be like her.

“What is it, sweetheart?” I kneel to her level, careful not to wrinkle my dress.

“Will I find a prince like Aunt Isabella did?” she asks with the earnest curiosity only children possess.

The question hits me harder than I expected. Here’s this innocent child, looking at today’s ceremony and seeing promise, hope, forever. Meanwhile, I’m calculating vendor payments and wondering how long this particular marriage will last before the groom decides his wife’s boundaries are inconvenient.

“You know what, Sophie?” I say, straightening her tiny tiara. “The most important thing is to find someone who treats you like the princess you already are. Never settle for less than that, okay?”

She nods solemnly, then skips away to terrorize the other wedding party members.

My phone rings, the florist calling back about the bouquet emergency. As I handle the crisis with practiced efficiency, a thought creeps into my mind unbidden: What if I’m wrong? What if love isn’t just a marketing scheme designed to sell wedding dresses and diamond rings?

I shake my head, banishing the dangerous hope before it can take root. I’ve been down that road too many times. Hope is a luxury I can’t afford.

The ceremony begins at exactly 4 PM, just as planned. I watch from the back of the garden as Isabella glides down the aisle toward her groom, Daniel. The look on his face when he sees her… it’s everything I used to dream about for myself. Pure adoration, complete devotion, the kind of love that makes you believe in forever.

But I’ve learned that looks can be deceiving. Marcus used to look at me like that too, before he decided I was too much work. Before he chose someone easier.

As the priest begins the ceremony, my mind wanders to the conversation I had with my therapist, Dr. Maya, last week.

“Seraphina, when was the last time you allowed yourself to imagine being loved exactly as you are?”

“Dr. Maya, I’ve tried that. A couple of times. It doesn’t work.”

“Or maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

“And maybe unicorns exist too.”

She’d laughed at that, but her next words had stuck with me: “Your worth isn’t determined by other people’s inability to see it. The right person won’t ask you to compromise who you are.”

Easy for her to say. She’s been happily married for fifteen years to a man who brought her flowers on their first date and still does every Friday.

The bride and groom exchange vows they probably wrote at 2 AM last night, promising things like “forever” and “unconditional love.” I’ve heard it all before. The statistics on marriage aren’t encouraging, and the ones on happy marriages are even worse.

But as Daniel lifts Isabella’s veil and kisses her with such tenderness that even I feel a flutter in my chest, I wonder… what would it feel like to be loved like that? Really, truly loved, not just desired or pursued or temporarily entertained?

“Beautiful ceremony.”

I turn to find a man I don’t recognize standing beside me. Tall, impeccably dressed in a custom suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent, with skin the color of rich coffee and eyes that seem to see straight through my professional facade.

“Thank you,” I reply automatically, assuming he’s just another guest making small talk. “Though I can’t take credit for the love. That’s all them.”

He studies me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. Not the usual male interest I’ve learned to deflect, but something deeper. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You don’t believe in it,” he says. It’s not a question.

The observation catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Love. You create these perfect moments for other people, but you don’t believe any of it’s real.”

I should be offended. Instead, I’m intrigued by his audacity. “And you know how, exactly?”

His smile is slow, devastating, and completely confident. “Because you’re standing at the most romantic wedding of the year looking like you’re calculating the statistical probability of divorce rather than enjoying the fairy tale.”

Damn. He’s not wrong.

“Maybe I just prefer reality to fantasy,” I counter, lifting my chin with the defiance that’s kept me afloat through every heartbreak.

“Or maybe,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that does things to my pulse I don’t want to analyze, “you just haven’t experienced the kind of love worth believing in yet.”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve either slapping him or walking away, and I’m horrifyingly unsure which impulse is stronger, he extends a business card between two fingers.

“I’m Aurelius Kingsley. I have a proposition for you, Miss…?”

“Cole. Seraphina Cole.” I take the card. The card stock is thick, expensive, with embossed gold lettering that reads: Aurelius Kingsley, CEO, Kingsley Global Enterprises.

My breath catches. Everyone in the country knows that name. Kingsley Global is the tech empire that revolutionized everything from banking to healthcare across America. Forbes estimated his net worth last year at over three billion dollars, making him one of the youngest billionaires in the world.

And he wants to hire me?

“What kind of proposition?” I ask, proud that my voice doesn’t betray the way my heart is suddenly racing.

His smile widens, and I realize with a jolt that he’s devastatingly handsome when he’s not being mysteriously intense. “The kind that might change your mind about fairy tales.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “My foundation is hosting a gala in six weeks. The biggest charity event New York has seen in a decade. I need someone who can create magic, even if she doesn’t believe in it herself.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of wedding guests like some sort of billionaire, fairy godfather, leaving me standing there with his card and a thousand questions.

I look down at the elegant script of his contact information, then back at the happy couple now posing for photos that will document their perfect day.

What kind of man approaches a wedding planner at someone else’s reception to offer her the job of a lifetime?

I didn’t know it then, but this event would change far more than my schedule.