Riley
The wedding planner's office is a vision of chaos and perfection all at once. Swatches of fabric cover the large oak table alongside meticulously labeled folders and color-coded binders.
The air smells faintly of lavender candles, a scent meant to be calming, but it does nothing for the knot of frustration tightening in my chest.
I glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time. Damien was supposed to be here over an hour ago. I've called, texted—nothing. His silence feels louder than the wedding planner's soft hums as she flips through a binder of centerpiece options.
"Ms. King?" the planner—Lauren—says gently, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. "Do you want to move forward with these arrangements?"
I look at her blankly for a moment before forcing a polite smile. "Yes, let's go ahead with the white roses for the tables. Damien agreed to those before."