How much worse could this groom possibly be?

Los Angeles, California.

Five years later.

“Mommy, I don't wanna go to school!”

I'd just poured myself a cup of coffee when Irene appeared in the kitchen wearing a pink princess dress, a slightly crooked plastic crown, and the expression of a woman who'd just discovered her husband had a second family in another state.

“Irene, sweetheart, we've been over this.”

“No!” She threw both hands up. “I wanna wear this!”

“And Mommy already told you that you can wear it after school.”

“But I'm a princess!”

“Congratulations, baby. Now please put your shoes on.”

Irene stared at me with those big blue eyes of hers, which she'd unfortunately inherited from a certain asshole we really didn't need to be talking about this early in the morning. Her thick black hair fell past her shoulders, and her round cheeks were flushed from spending nearly twenty minutes fighting for her constitutional right to wear a ball gown to preschool.

“I don't wanna be a princess after school. I wanna be a princess at school.”

I took a sip of coffee, seriously considering whether it was too early to add tequila.

“Danna!”

“Coming!”

Danna appeared from the living room carrying a bunny-shaped backpack and a pair of white sneakers that should've been on my daughter's feet fifteen minutes ago.

At twenty-five, Danna had an unreasonable amount of patience for someone who spent way too much time on T****k. She'd been helping me take care of the twins since they were two months old, back when I was still living in a tiny apartment, sleeping four hours a night, and crying every time I looked at the cost of diapers.

Now she lived with me in a house with five bedrooms, a swimming pool, and a view of the Pacific Ocean.

The only thing that hadn't changed was my children's unwavering commitment to driving me insane.

“Princess, we have a problem,” Danna said, crouching in front of Irene. “If you wear this dress, the back's gonna get caught in your car seat again.”

Irene immediately grabbed her skirt. “My dress will get hurt?”

“A little.”

I glanced at Danna.

She shrugged as if to say, Whatever works.

“Then I don't wanna ride in the car.”

Dear God.

Before I could explain that taking a horse-drawn carriage to school wasn't an available transportation option, a clicking sound came from the dining table.

I turned around.

Isaac was sitting in his chair wearing dinosaur pajamas, his black hair sticking up in every direction, and a tiny screwdriver in his hand.

In front of him lay our TV remote, completely taken apart.

I stared at him.

He stared right back. Those big hazel eyes were the only real evidence that I'd actually participated in making this child.

“Isaac Moguel.”

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Why is our TV remote taken apart?”

He looked down at the object in front of him, then back at me with an incredibly serious expression. “I wanted to see what's inside.”

“Why?”

“Because the buttons make the TV turn on.”

“And?”

“How?”

I set down my mug.

Danna moved faster, grabbing the batteries and screwdriver off the table before my son could find something even more interesting to dismantle.

“Buddy, we've talked about not taking tools out of the drawer.”

“Mommy, if I take this off, will the TV stop working?”

“If you keep taking things apart in this house, Mommy's gonna die.”

“Why?”

“Because Mommy needs a break.”

“If Mommy dies, who's gonna make pancakes?”

I closed my eyes. “Danna.”

“No,” Danna said quickly. “I'm not getting involved in this conversation.”

“Isaac!” Irene suddenly shrieked from beside the kitchen island. “You broke the TV!”

“Not the TV. The remote.”

“That's mine!”

“The remote belongs to everybody.”

“No! I'm the one who watches princesses!”

Isaac gave her a little smile, revealing the dimples that always made complete strangers gush about how adorable he was.

Clearly, none of them had ever lived with him.

“The princess is ugly.”

Irene gasped.

I immediately pointed at Isaac. “Don't.”

“But she is ugly.”

“Isaac.”

“Her hair's yellow.”

“So?”

“Like cheese.”

Irene screamed.

And just like that, at seven forty-three in the morning, civil war officially broke out in the Moguel household.

My house was a few blocks from the beach, in a quiet neighborhood lined with palm trees and neighbors whose hedges probably cost more than my first car.

I'd bought it two years ago, after my event-planning company handled a celebrity wedding that suddenly had the name MGE Events popping up everywhere.

The house wasn't particularly big by Los Angeles standards, just two stories with white walls, tall windows, oak floors, and a backyard overlooking the ocean in the distance.

I'd deliberately avoided filling it with too many expensive things because two four-year-olds could make a thirty-thousand-dollar Italian sofa look like a crime scene with nothing more than a single juice box.

I loved this house. I loved my job, my bank account, and the fact that I no longer had to choose between buying baby formula and paying the electric bill.

I even loved my practically nonexistent dating life. It was very peaceful. At least when my kids were asleep.

+++

By ten thirty, I was already at my office in downtown Los Angeles, wearing a cream blazer, a black pencil skirt, and heels that were far too expensive to let anyone step on.

MGE Events occupied two floors of a modern commercial building, complete with glass-walled meeting rooms, a design showroom, and a staff that seemed to consume caffeine instead of water.

A gold company logo hung on the reception wall.

MOGUEL EVENTS

I still caught myself smiling whenever I saw it.

Five years ago, I'd arrived in Chicago with nothing but two suitcases, a Computer Science degree from MIT, and enough money in my savings account to raise two babies. Now my company handled celebrity weddings, billionaire birthday parties, and private events with budgets big enough to buy a decent house in most American states.

The funny thing was, I'd never even planned on becoming a wedding planner.

I'd started the business by developing RSVP and guest management systems for a few event planners, until one client asked me to help manage their entire event. One job turned into five, five turned into twenty, and apparently, I was pretty good at managing rich people's chaos.

Probably because I'd had plenty of practice managing my own.

“Avery, schedule a meeting with the design team for two,” I said as I passed her desk. “I want to see the revised concept before we send it to the client.”

“Already done.”

“Excellent. You deserve a raise.”

“I'll remember that.”

“Please don't.”

I'd barely settled into my chair behind my desk when my personal phone rang.

The name on the screen made me frown.

SARAH MARLONE.

Sarah was my cousin on my mother's side, two years younger than me, and had a habit of calling only when she needed restaurant recommendations, hotel discounts, or someone to explain why her credit card had been declined after she'd bought a six-thousand-dollar handbag.

We weren't particularly close, but we got along well enough to wish each other happy birthday and occasionally see each other at family gatherings.

I answered. “If you're calling to ask whether I can get you a reservation at Nobu tonight, the answer is no.”

“Iris!”

I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear. “Wow. Hello to you too.”

“Oh my God, I seriously need your help.”

I opened my laptop. “What did you lose this time?”

“My wedding planner.”

I stopped typing. “Excuse me?”

“She quit.”

I glanced at the calendar in the corner of my screen. “Sarah, isn't your wedding in ten days?”

“YES!”

“Why are you yelling at me? I'm not the one who told her to leave.”

“Because I'm freaking out!”

“Okay. Breathe. What happened?”

I heard hurried footsteps on the other end, followed by Sarah letting out a long breath.

“There was this huge fight with my fiancé's family. They didn't like some of the decisions the wedding planner made, and then everything turned into a complete mess. I don't even know all the details. All I know is she sent her resignation email this morning.”

I leaned back in my chair. “And her contract?”

“The legal team is handling it.”

“Of course they are.”

“Iris, please. I don't know what to do.”

I was starting to see where this conversation was going. “No.”

“I haven't even asked you anything yet!”

“You don't have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Iris.”

“Sarah, my company already has three major events this month. I can't take over a wedding with only ten days to prepare, especially when the previous clients just made their wedding planner run for the hills.”

“She didn't run away!”

“She quit ten days before the wedding. Baby, that's the professional definition of running away.”

Sarah let out a long groan.

I pulled up my work schedule, even though I already knew the answer.

There was no way.

“Why don't you find another wedding planner?”

“I tried! But everyone I've contacted says they're fully booked or it's too short notice.”

“Because it is too short notice.”

“I know! That's why I'm calling you.”

I rubbed my temples.

“Please, Iris. I really, really want everything to be perfect. You know how much this wedding means to me.”

I did.

Sarah had been talking about her dream wedding since we were teenagers. She'd even made an entire P*******t board for it before she had a boyfriend, which I'd found slightly concerning but also pretty reasonable for someone who treated her life like a N*****x series.

“I can recommend a few people,” I offered.

“I want you.”

“Sarah.”

“My fiancé's family is also willing to pay whatever you ask.”

I went quiet for a moment. “Whatever?”

“I mean it.”

“Interesting. Does he own an oil field?”

“Iris!”

“I'm just checking the client's financial situation.”

“Listen, this is going to be one of the most exclusive weddings of the year. We're having guests from Europe, New York, Dubai, and some pretty big names I'm not allowed to mention yet. Budget isn't an issue.”

I twirled my pen between my fingers.

One thing I'd learned from running a business was that rich people who said budget wasn't an issue usually came with the most issues.

“What's your fiancé's name, anyway?”

Sarah didn't answer right away.

I frowned. “Sarah?”

“His identity is still confidential.”

I stared at my phone. “Confidential from who?”

“The media. The public. People who don't need to know.”

“I'm your cousin, not TMZ.”

“I know, but there's a pretty strict confidentiality agreement. His family takes security very seriously, and all vendors have to sign an NDA before they're given the full details.”

I let out a little laugh. “Okay, now I'm starting to worry you're marrying a fugitive member of the royal family.”

“Can you be serious for once?”

“I am serious. I need to know who I'm going to be working with before I agree to take on any project.”

“And you will. Everything will be explained in a private meeting, including the contract and budget. I just need you to show up first.”

I checked my schedule one more time.

Ten days. Professionally speaking, this sounded like the beginning of a very expensive headache.

“Sarah, I'm not promising anything.”

“I know.”

“If I decide after the meeting that this project isn't realistic, I'm turning it down.”

“Okay.”

“And I don't do family discounts.”

“Fine!”

I smiled a little. “Wow. You really are desperate.”

“Iris, I can come to your office this afternoon. Or you can come to us. Whatever works. I just need half an hour of your time.”

I checked my calendar. Four o'clock was still open, at least until someone decided they wanted to move an entire ballroom into the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

“Four o'clock. Text me the address.”

Sarah let out a relieved squeal. “Oh my God. Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“This is a consultation, Sarah. Not a yes.”

“I know. I love you!”

“Love you too. Now stop screaming before I change my mind.”

She laughed and hung up.

I set my phone on the desk and went back to the Beverly Hills proposal I'd been working on earlier.

Less than a minute later, a text from Sarah came through.

SARAH: Thank you again! ❤️ I'll send you the location in a minute. And please, don't be late. My fiancé's family is really strict about schedules.

I raised an eyebrow as I read it.

ME: If they want me there on time, make sure they're on time too. I charge by the hour for consultations, sweetheart.

Her reply came almost immediately.

SARAH: You're impossible.

Then I pressed the intercom. “Avery, can you clear my schedule after three thirty?”

“Of course. New meeting?”

“Looks like it.”

“Big client?”

I glanced at Sarah's message one more time. “No idea yet. But if my cousin calls you trying to arrange something on my behalf, don't believe a word she says until I tell you otherwise.”

Avery laughed. “Should I be worried?”

“Not yet.”

I went back to work while, outside my window, Los Angeles traffic crawled beneath a California sun that was far too bright for November.

Ten days to save someone else's wedding.

What could possibly be the hardest part?

I'd once organized a private dinner for an actor who demanded that every flower in the venue be replaced because his ex-wife was allergic to the color yellow.

How much worse could this groom possibly be?