No Exit

At ten to eleven, I’m already seated in the Cruz Atelier conference room with my second coffee in hand, my hair neatly brushed, my lipstick resurrected, and the face of a creative director who could make a vendor change an entire floral concept without crying in public.

Major progress, considering three hours earlier I had been negotiating with a four-year-old about T-Rex’s constitutional rights.

Our conference room overlooked West Hollywood from the second floor, all glass, pale wood, linen samples, neutral-toned mood boards that made rich clients feel calm, and one large vase of white calla lilies I had chosen because they looked expensive and mildly judgmental. Nina sat beside me with an iPad, a black blazer, and the expression of a woman fully prepared to watch me eat someone alive if this meeting wasted my time.

Across the table, Gracie Marie’s team sat in a small battle formation.

There was a PR director with a sharp bob and a media-trained smile. A lawyer who opened a leather binder like he was about to read a royal will. A large security consultant with a military watch and eyes that never fully stopped moving. And a representative from Gracie’s side, a woman in a cream dress, small diamonds in her ears, and the aura of someone paid a great deal of money to say “we’ll circle back” while closing a door in your face.

Gracie herself had not arrived yet.

“Ms. de Cruz,” the lawyer said, sliding the contract toward me. “This is the preliminary services agreement. Six-month planning window. Full creative direction, guest experience, vendor curation, production management, security coordination, media containment, and privacy execution.”

Media containment.

I took the contract, opened the first page, then flipped to the compensation section.

And stopped.

The number was indecent.

This was big enough to build a new Cruz Atelier office on Melrose, add a rooftop garden, hire a private barista, and still have money left to purchase the ego of the male florist who once called me sweetheart before I froze him with one look.

I took a sip of coffee.

Slowly.

So I would not look like a woman who had just seen her bank account’s future wearing couture.

“Interesting,” I said.

Nina gave a tiny cough. Traitor.

The PR director smiled. “We understand the timeline is aggressive.”

“Six months for a wedding at this scale isn’t aggressive.” I turned the page, reading the cancellation clause. “It’s an extreme sport with a veil.”

The security consultant did not smile.

“The family is prepared to move quickly.” The lawyer said.

“The family,” I repeated.

Gracie’s representative folded her hands on the table. “Gracie comes from a private old-money family. They prefer discretion.”

I nodded. “Old money always prefers discretion until they ask for thirty thousand white roses to be flown in from the Netherlands the same day.”

I kept reading. The venue had not been clearly named. The guest count was still “classified until phase two.” Media strategy appeared before linen colors. There were layered NDAs, a penalty clause, and a confidentiality clawback that made me want to offer a small round of applause. Whoever this man was, his family was not merely rich. They had lawyers who wrote like they had once been yelled at by a senator.

Or maybe the man was a senator.

Or the son of a defense contractor.

Or the heir to a tech company that had “accidentally” sold ordinary people’s data for a new yacht. Well, America had many varieties of terrible men in good suits.

I closed the pages for a moment and looked at them. “Vendor database?”

“A pre-approved list can be shared after signature. You may also submit your preferred vendors for vetting.” The PR director answered immediately.

“Insurance?”

The lawyer opened another tab. “Event liability, cancellation, weather, talent, art transport, medical, cyber, kidnap and ransom.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Kidnap and ransom for a wedding?”

The security consultant finally spoke. His voice was flat. “Standard for this guest profile.”

I leaned back slightly. “Venue permits?”

“Multiple locations are under review,” the representative said. “California coast, private estate, and one international option.”

“Seating protocol?”

The PR director smiled, far too prepared. “Diplomatic-level complexity.”

I looked at Nina. “Make a note. We’ll need more wine.”

“Already did,” Nina said without blinking.

“Security?”

The security consultant pushed over a thin folder. “Layered access. Guest credentialing. Facial recognition at staff entry. Drone restrictions. Paparazzi perimeter.”

“Media control?”

The PR director answered, “Full embargo. Approved photographer only. No staff phones. Social blackout until release.”

I tapped my nail against the edge of the contract. “So this isn’t a wedding. This is an intelligence operation.”

No one laughed.

Sucks.

I picked up a black pen from the table and spun it once between my fingers. “One question before I sell six months of my life to white flowers and paranoia.”

They all went silent.

I smiled. “The groom’s name?”

The air in the room shifted only slightly, but enough for me to feel it on my skin.

The PR director glanced at the lawyer. The lawyer glanced at the representative. The security consultant did not move, which only made him the most suspicious one.

Gracie’s representative smiled softly. “The groom’s identity is confidential until execution of the agreement.”

I stared at her. “You want me to design a wedding for a man without a name?”

“Temporarily.”

“Is he a fugitive?”

“Of course not.”

“A minor king?”

“Maya,” Nina whispered, but her tone was not exactly discouraging me.

The lawyer folded his hands. “Privacy, market sensitivity, family security, and media speculation. His name triggers attention.”

“That usually applies to presidential candidates, heirs to legal cartels, or men who have made actresses cry in Cannes.”

The PR director’s smile thinned even more. “Once the contract is signed, you’ll receive the sealed groom dossier.”

“Sealed groom dossier,” I repeated. “Sexy.”

I opened the payment page again. Looked at the number one more time, just to make sure I was not hallucinating from sleep deprivation and too much dinosaur law.

No.

The number was still standing there. Arrogant. Tempting. Perfectly capable of funding all my bad decisions for a decade.

I looked at each of them in turn.

They were tense, but polished. These were people used to locking doors before secrets got out. They had not come here to persuade me. They had come to purchase certainty. Purchase silence. Purchase taste.

Purchase me.

And the most irritating part was that they had come with the right price.

I uncapped the pen.

“Cruz Atelier has three conditions,” I said. “One, I choose the core creative team myself. No cousin of Gracie’s who just graduated with an art history degree and wants to ‘help with the vibe.’ Two, every vendor goes through me or Nina. If anyone contacts my florist behind my back, I will know, and I will become unpleasant in very good shoes.”

The PR director nodded quickly.

“Three,” I continued, “if this nameless groom turns out to be the kind of man who wants doves, swords, a live tiger, or vows delivered by helicopter, you tell me now so I can raise my f*e and prepare an emotional lawyer.”

Gracie’s representative held back a smile. “Noted.”

I read the final page, found the signature line, then signed my name calmly.

Maya de Cruz.

Black ink slid smoothly over expensive paper.

Beside me, Nina exhaled very softly. Whether from relief or because she had just watched her Christmas bonus grow wings, I could not tell.

I pushed the contract back toward the lawyer. “Congratulations. You just bought six months of my sleep disorder.”

The lawyer took it, then handed an encrypted tablet to Gracie’s representative. The woman tapped a few times, waited, then looked at me.

“The dossier will unlock in your secure portal within the hour.”

“Sure.” I reached for my coffee.

The PR director stood. “Gracie is very excited to meet you.”

“Wonderful. I’m also excited to meet a client who didn’t show up to the first meeting.”

Nina stepped on my foot under the table.

I smiled wider.

“She’ll arrive for the creative session tomorrow.” Gracie’s representative only said.

“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll prepare the mood board, security map, and maybe a Ouija board to summon the groom’s name.”

They started gathering their folders. I stayed seated, coffee in hand, face calm, heartbeat steady. Big projects always came with secrets. Secrets always came with families. Families always came with men who thought the world was private property.

I had seen the type often enough.

I could handle them.

Nina’s phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen, then froze.

Only for half a second.

I turned to her. “What?”

She quickly locked the screen. “The portal came in.”

“And?”

Nina looked at me with a face that was far too blank.

Ah.

I hated blank faces. “Nina.”

She swallowed. “The groom dossier is locked until you open it.”

I stared at the tablet in front of her.

The black screen reflected my face back at me.  I lifted my coffee and took a sip. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s see what kind of sins this nameless man has.”

At first, there was no name.

Only a black-and-white page, cold and formal, as if it had been designed by someone who believed a sans serif font could hold back a family scandal.

CLIENT PROFILE: HIGH SECURITY EVENT

GROOM FAMILY: European energy dynasty

PRIMARY CORPORATE CONNECTION: Bernadi Petroleum Holdings

SECURITY RISK: High

MEDIA EXPOSURE: Monaco, London, Rome, New York

GUEST SENSITIVITY: Political figures, royal-adjacent circles, energy sector, private banking

I read all of it without blinking.

At the very least, I was proud of my face. My face did nothing. Did not crack. Did not scream. Did not immediately turn into the woman who had run from Hawaii five years ago in a wrinkled dress with a ticket to Bali.

But my body stopped.

Completely.

My finger froze over the trackpad.

I stared at the screen.

Bernadi Petroleum Holdings.

Because apparently the universe had not been satisfied with ruining my youth through one Italian family. Now it wanted to give me a six-month contract, a triple-layer NDA, and a premium invoice to return to the scene of the fire.

I exhaled slowly. “Well,” I said, “at least they’re consistent. This family has always loved entering my life through expensive documents.”

Nina turned to me. “Maya…”

“It could be another Bernadi.” I was sure of it.

I scrolled.

“Bernadi is a big name. Lots of branches. Lots of men with good jawlines and emotional problems. It could be a cousin. A young uncle. A backup heir who also likes oil and making women need therapy.”

Nina said nothing.

I scrolled again.

The next page opened.

GROOM IDENTITY UNLOCKED

Name: Rhysand Vittorio Bernadi

Age: 30

Role: Executive Vice Chairman, Bernadi Petroleum Holdings

Primary residence: Rome, London, New York

Media handling: Extreme discretion required

Beneath it was a photograph.

Black and white. Dark suit. Black hair neater than I remembered, but not neat enough to make him look tame. The same jaw. The same mouth. The same blue eyes, staring straight into the camera like the camera owed him money.

There was suddenly not enough air in the conference room.

I closed the laptop.

Too hard.

Nina flinched.

“Cancel the contract.”

She looked at me like I had just announced I wanted to burn down the office for mood lighting. “Maya.”

“Cancel it.”

“Maya, we just signed.”

“I know. I was in the room when I made that stupid decision. Cancel it.”

Nina pulled her iPad closer and opened the contract with quick fingers. “The termination clause is bad.”

“How bad?”

She did not answer.

“Nina.”

“If we withdraw without material breach on their side after the groom’s identity has been disclosed, it’s considered voluntary withdrawal from a high-security engagement.”

“Translate that into human.”

Nina swallowed. “We would have to return the retainer at triple value, pay their entire legal preparation f*e, cover the vendor holds they already blocked under our name, and we could be hit with an injunction if there’s any indication our reason for withdrawing is connected to confidential information.”

I stared at her.

“There’s a reputational clause, too. They can issue notice to high-security planner networks and private event insurers that Cruz Atelier failed after identity disclosure.”

I laughed once. “So if I back out, it looks like I saw the groom’s name, panicked, and couldn’t be trusted with a sensitive client.”

Nina did not answer.

I stood from my chair and walked to the window. West Hollywood glittered outside, too bright, too clean, as if this morning had not just dug up an old grave and placed flowers on my desk.

Down below, cars moved in small lines. People carried coffee. The world did not care that one name could make my ribs feel too tight.

Rhysand Vittorio Bernadi.

Five years.

I pressed my fingertips against the glass.

“Did their retainer come in?” I asked.

Nina was quiet for a moment. “Escrow confirmation came in two minutes ago.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Maya…”

I turned around. “Don’t use a funeral voice with me. I am still very alive and very expensive.”

She shut her mouth.

I had left that man without a message. Without an explanation. Without telling him that a few weeks after Bali, I had thrown up in the bathroom of a rented villa and watched two pink lines appear like a slap.

“Nina.”

“Yeaah?”

“Start an internal background check. Every vendor needs to be clean. No Bernadi people get access to staff personal data. No access to my home address. All communication goes through the office.”

Nina started typing immediately, relieved to have concrete instructions. “Okay.”

“And find a loophole.”

“For the contract?”

“For my life, if there is one.”