dearly beloved, what the ...

Beverly Hills had way too many houses that looked like museums, and the residence I was visiting this afternoon apparently had every intention of winning that competition.

I slowed down when my GPS announced that I'd arrived, although the nearly thirteen-foot-tall black iron gates in front of me were already a pretty good indication.

Beyond them stretched a long driveway lined with olive trees, limestone fountains, and a Mediterranean-style estate with tall windows and wrought-iron balconies that looked like they'd been transported straight from Italy.

“Okay, Sarah,” I muttered, rolling down my window. “Apparently, you married well.”

A security guard approached my car. “Good afternoon, ma'am. Your name?”

“Iris Moguel. I have a four o'clock appointment with Sarah Marlone.”

The man checked the tablet in his hand, then touched his earpiece and said something I couldn't hear. A few seconds later, the gates opened.

I glanced at the dashboard clock.

3:57 PM.

Perfect.

I hated being late, especially when meeting wealthy people who considered their time significantly more valuable than everyone else's.

I parked my Mercedes in front of the marble steps, grabbed my work bag, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.

My brown hair fell in waves past my shoulders, my makeup was still flawless, and the nude lipstick I'd applied that morning hadn't needed a touch-up. I'd swapped the cream blazer I'd worn to the office for a more fitted white one, paired with high-waisted black pants and pointed-toe heels.

A uniformed woman greeted me at the front door and led me through a marble-floored foyer with a crystal chandelier big enough to make the electric company very happy.

The house was beautiful, I had to admit. There were oversized oil paintings, fresh flower arrangements in every corner, and the faint scent of expensive sandalwood.

“Iris!”

I'd barely stepped into the sitting room when Sarah appeared through the glass doors leading to the garden.

She was wearing a pale blue silk dress, her blonde hair styled in loose waves, and the diamonds in her ears caught the afternoon light as she hurried toward me.

“Oh my God, look at you!”

Before I could even say hello, she'd already wrapped her arms around me.

“Hi, Sarah.”

She pulled back slightly, looking me up and down. “Seriously, you look amazing. I love your blazer. Where's it from?”

“Saint Laurent.”

“I knew it!” She touched my arm. “And your hair! God, Iris, how do you manage to look this good after having two kids?”

“I sold my soul to a dermatologist.”

Sarah laughed, then took my hand and led me toward an ivory sofa near the window. “You have to give me that doctor's number.”

“First, you have to tell me why your wedding planner ran away ten days before your wedding.”

Her smile shifted a little. “Can we at least have some coffee first?”

“Absolutely. I'm much more pleasant after caffeine.”

“Good, because I really need you in a good mood today.”

That wasn't something I wanted to hear from a potential client.

We sat across from each other while a server brought us coffee, sparkling water, and a small plate of pastries that looked too pretty to eat.

“So, the concept is actually almost finished. I want everything to be romantic, elegant, timeless. Lots of white flowers, candlelight, maybe a little touch of gold, but nothing too over the top. I don't want my wedding to look like a Russian oligarch's birthday party.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I want the guests to feel like they're in Tuscany. You know, intimate, beautiful, very Italian.”

I opened my iPad. “How many guests?”

“Around four hundred.”

I looked up. “Four hundred?”

“Maybe four hundred and fifty.”

“Sarah, sweetheart, that's not intimate. That's an international conference.”

She laughed a little nervously. “I know, but most of them are family and close friends.”

I decided not to comment on her family's definition of close friends. “Okay. Let's start with the important stuff. Has the venue been confirmed?”

“Yes.”

“Catering, florist, entertainment, rentals, are all the contracts still in place?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“As far as you know?”

Sarah scrunched up her nose. “I haven't been handling all the details myself.”

I took a breath and opened a new page. “Listen, I'm not going to change an entire concept that's already in motion just because the previous wedding planner quit. Ten days isn't enough time to rebuild everything from scratch, so if I take this job, the first priority is auditing the vendors, contracts, and timeline. We need to know what's been paid, what hasn't, and who's still willing to work with us.”

Sarah nodded quickly. “That's perfect. I trust you.”

“Don't be so quick. I haven't seen the numbers yet.”

She picked up a tablet from the side table and handed it to me.

I scrolled through a few pages.

The design concept was actually pretty good. Mostly ivory and champagne, with touches of greenery from olive branch arrangements. There were long table designs, hanging floral installations, and warm lighting that would make the entire venue look like a wedding reception at an Italian villa. But a few pages later, I stopped scrolling.

“This is just the decorating budget?”

Sarah nodded.

I stared at the seven-figure number on the screen. Well. Someone clearly loved flowers.

“What's the total approved budget?”

“There isn't a final number.” Sarah gave me a smile. “My fiancé said we don't really need to worry too much about the cost.”

Well... rich men's favorite sentence.

“I still need a budget limit,” I said. “Even if he can afford to buy all of Beverly Hills, I'm not approving any expenses without actual numbers and written authorization.”

“He will like that.”

“Oh?”

“He's very... particular about things like that.”

I set the tablet down. “Particular how?”

She picked up her glass of water. “He just likes everything to go according to plan.”

“So do I. Sounds like we're getting along already.”

“Yeah, but he can be pretty difficult when he thinks something isn't right.”

“Difficult as in sending a steak back because it's not cooked properly, or difficult as in firing the entire staff because he doesn't like the color of the carpet?”

Sarah laughed, although this time it sounded a little forced. “Not that bad.”

Interesting. I leaned back slightly. “Sarah, what exactly happened with your previous wedding planner?”

She looked down at her nails. “Like I said, they had an argument.”

“Because?”

“Some decisions were made without his family's approval.”

“What decisions?”

“Changes to the layout, a few additional vendors, and there was an issue with the guest list.”

I waited.

Sarah sighed. “Apparently, she also shared some information with people who weren't supposed to have it.”

There we go. Finally, something that made sense.

“What kind of information?”

“I don't know the details. His security team discovered the problem.”

“And the wedding planner resigned after they confronted her?”

She nodded.

I twirled my pen between my fingers.

In this industry, confidentiality wasn't just a nice little bonus. I'd once organized a birthday party for an actor whose own wife didn't know the location until an hour before the event, and a tech billionaire who made the entire staff sign three separate documents just to see the cocktail menu.

I could work with paranoid people.

What I couldn't tolerate was someone withholding important information from me and then blaming me when everything went to hell.

“If I take over, I'll need full access to every contract, vendor list, guest list, and security protocol. I also want to speak directly with whoever has the final say.”

Sarah looked up. “My fiancé?”

“If he's the one making the final decisions, yes.”

“He'll be joining us shortly.”

“Good. I'll also need his full name for the client documents.”

Sarah glanced toward the door.

“Sarah?”

“He'll introduce himself.”

I stared at her for a few seconds. “Okay. Now I'm starting to feel like I'm auditioning for the CIA.”

Sarah laughed. “It's not that dramatic.”

“Baby, you're hiding your future husband's identity from your cousin. That's a little dramatic.”

“I'm not hiding it from you personally.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “It's just that his family is really strict about privacy, and I promised not to share any information until everything was official.”

“Even with me?”

“Especially with someone who works with high-profile clients.”

I considered that.

Fair enough. Still annoying, but at least it made sense.

I glanced at the NDA Sarah had emailed me an hour earlier. My legal team had already reviewed the first few sections, and although some clauses would need to be negotiated if I accepted the contract, there was nothing particularly unusual by ultra-high-net-worth client standards.

“All right. We can discuss his identity and the contract later. For now, I want to know whether the venue has approved the space allocation for four hundred and fifty guests.”

Sarah looked relieved when we went back to discussing the decorations.

The next ten minutes were actually pretty productive.

I noted a few issues with the timeline, found two vendors whose arrival schedules overlapped, and explained why Sarah's request to add a floral installation above the dance floor might require an additional structural inspection.

She listened, occasionally nodding, although I suspected her mind was somewhere else. Especially whenever I mentioned her future husband.

“Will he agree to these changes?” I asked, showing her the revised table arrangements.

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“He doesn't really care about the decorations.”

“Great. At least that's one thing we won't have to argue about.”

“But he's very particular about privacy and security.”

“I'm starting to see a pattern here.”

Sarah gave me a sheepish smile.

I was just about to ask who was in charge of contacting the head of security when the door on the other side of the room opened.

Footsteps echoed against the marble floor, followed by a man's voice speaking on the phone.

“No, I'm not approving it until I've seen the revised plans.”

My hand froze over my iPad.

There was something about that voice.

Low, slightly raspy, with a casual way of speaking that made even a refusal sound like he was enjoying the conversation.

“Then tell them to send me something worth approving.”

I knew that voice.

No way.

No.

No fucking way.

But the way he pronounced every word, the way his voice dipped slightly at the end of a sentence, and that brief pause before he said something that usually got everyone else to do exactly what he wanted.

I'd heard that voice every morning for three years.

I'd heard him laugh right against my ear, complain when I took up too much space in bed, and call my name from the kitchen when he caught me finishing the last of his coffee.

Oh, God.

No.

Slowly, I turned my head.

And...

Oh, fuck...

No.

No.

No...

He walked in from the side hallway with his phone pressed to his ear, wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows, tailored black pants, and a watch that probably cost enough to put someone through four years of college.

His black hair was slightly messy, as though he'd run his fingers through it a few times. His jaw was more defined now, with a hint of stubble that made him look more mature than the last time I'd seen him.

God, that man was still ridiculously handsome.

No, correction.

He was even better-looking.

Apparently, five years had given him something I absolutely did not need: broader shoulders, a more mature face, and the kind of confidence that made him look like a man who was used to getting whatever he wanted.

The bastard had somehow gotten even hotter with age.

He ended his call and slipped his phone into his pocket.

Then he looked up.

His gaze moved from Sarah to where I was sitting.

Those blue eyes.

I saw them every morning when Irene demanded extra pancakes or threatened to refuse to go to school.

Fuck... Xavier Bandini.

The man I'd once loved so much that I'd been stupid enough to imagine spending the rest of my life with him.

The man who'd sent me running from Boston with a broken heart and two babies I didn't even know I was carrying yet.

And now he was standing right in front of me, in a house I didn't even know belonged to anyone in particular, as though the last five years had somehow been folded into a matter of seconds.

I was still trying to process what the hell was happening when Sarah stood up with a huge smile.

“Baby! Finally!” She walked over to Xavier, rested a hand familiarly against his chest, then rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.

I saw everything.

Sarah's hand on Xavier's chest.

The way he lowered his head slightly to accept her kiss.

And the enormous diamond ring on my cousin's finger, catching the afternoon sunlight.

OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

Sarah turned toward me, looking absolutely delighted. “Iris, come here!”

I had no idea what was wrong with my legs, but for the first time in years, my body seemed to have decided it wasn't going to cooperate with my brain.

He looked at me.

There was no surprise on his face.

He simply regarded me with the polite interest someone might show a complete stranger.

Sarah proudly took Xavier's arm. “Xavier, this is Iris Moguel. My cousin, and hopefully our new wedding planner.” Then she turned to me. “Iris, meet my fiancé, Xavier Bandini.”

Fuck.

What the actual fuck?