The Wedding Invitation To Miss Ford

(Jasmine's POV)

I'd been at my desk for exactly forty three minutes, long enough for my second coffee to go cold and for my inbox to multiply like it was breeding under the screen, when Claire's voice cut across the bullpen.

"Team meeting. Conference Room C. Five minutes."

Great. Another ambush.

I shut my laptop with a soft click and slid my notebook under my arm. Around me, chairs squeaked and conversations dropped into low murmurs as people migrated toward the glasswalled room at the far end of the floor. My heels clicked in step with theirs, each sound echoing that faint coil of tension I'd carried since yesterday.

Adrian's office door was already open. He stepped out just as I passed, sleeves rolled, jacket slung over one shoulder, a glint of gold catching on his watch. His eyes flicked to me for half a second, just long enough to make my pulse trip, and then he was walking ahead, unhurried, like the room would wait for him.

I followed, jaw tight. After Lila's surprise dropin yesterday, I'd spent half the night thinking about that envelope on his desk, the weight in his voice when he said stay. I'd decided, very rationally, that none of it mattered. That I wasn't here for whatever storm swirled in Adrian Wolfe's life. I was here to work.

And then, of course, he was there again, cutting through the conference room like a shadow in expensive shoes.

Claire started the session with her usual clipped efficiency. Numbers on slides. Upticks and downturns. People muttering suggestions that smelled like reheated leftovers. I jotted notes, barely glancing up, until Adrian spoke.

"This campaign," he said, tapping the table lightly with the end of his pen, "is circling the drain."

A strategist cleared his throat. "We've got three weeks before, "

"Not enough," Adrian cut in. His eyes swept the table, sharp and disinterested all at once. "We need a pivot. Now."

Ideas sputtered, none of them sticking. Someone mentioned adding a giveaway; someone else suggested doubling ad spend. Adrian didn't even blink. The silence stretched.

And then he leaned back in his chair, dark eyes cutting straight to me. "Ford."

I froze. "Yes?"

He studied me like he was already three moves ahead. "You like impossible things."

Heat prickled up the back of my neck. "Excuse me?"

He set his pen down, deliberate. "You've seen the engagement metrics. Fix them. By morning."

The words hit like cold water. "By, what? That's, "

"If you succeed," he said, interrupting softly, "you're free."

The room went still. My pulse roared in my ears. "Free from what?"

Adrian's mouth curved, not a smile but something sharper. "From being my plus one next weekend."

My breath caught. He said it like it was obvious, like we'd already had this conversation out loud. A few heads around the table lifted in quiet interest. Claire's gaze flicked between us, unreadable.

"You can't be serious," I said, voice low.

"Completely." He laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the table, eyes locked on mine. "Rehearsal Friday night. Wedding Saturday. Bring someone or don't, but I need a guest. And right now, Ford, you're on the list."

A laugh broke out from Julian's side of the table, low and incredulous. "That's… unorthodox."

I snapped my notebook shut. "You can't just, "

"You want out?" Adrian's tone stayed calm, almost bored. "Show me results by sunrise. Otherwise, I'll see you Friday at seven. Black tie."

I stared at him, heat flooding my face, not the good kind. "You're unbelievable."

"And you're stalling." He tipped his head, gaze steady, the faintest hint of challenge in his voice. "Ticktock, Ford."

My chair scraped back against the floor, loud enough to make heads turn. I stood, notebook clenched so tight my knuckles whitened. "Fine."

Adrian didn't move. He just watched me, like he'd known my answer all along.

I turned on my heel and strode out, the glass door swinging wide and snapping shut behind me. My pulse thudded in my throat, hot anger buzzing under my skin. Back at my desk, I dropped into my chair, fingers digging into the edge of the notebook.

The bullpen noise blurred around me. All I could hear was his voice, calm and infuriating.

By morning.

I stared down at the mess of numbers on the campaign spreadsheet and whispered under my breath, low enough that only I could hear:

"Watch me."

The apartment smelled faintly of Tia's hair mask and burnt coffee. My blazer was already draped over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up as I stabbed at my laptop keyboard like the words might magically rearrange themselves into genius.

Tia leaned over the counter in an oversized hoodie, eyes wide as I finished recounting Adrian's little stunt.

"He what?"

"You heard me." I rubbed my temples. "Fix an entire collapsing campaign by morning or play his date for an entire weekend. He actually said ticktock."

Tia's mouth dropped open. Then she laughed. She actually laughed.

"Oh my God, he's evil. He's, wait, no, that's genius."

I stared at her like she'd just kicked my chair. "How is that genius?"

"Because he knows you. He knows you're stubborn enough to move a mountain out of spite. And, babe, you will move it."

My head hit the back of the chair with a groan. "This isn't about me proving him wrong. This is about me not wearing heels for twelve hours straight while his perfect family stares at me like I'm a replacement Lila."

Tia hopped onto the counter, legs swinging. "Okay, dramatic. Let's brainstorm. Show me the numbers."

I spun the screen toward her. Rows of grim metrics glared back. Tia squinted, then shoved her curls out of her face.

"Okay, okay. What if you, " she snapped her fingers ", humanize it. Pull in microstories. Behindthescenes vignettes. People love peeking behind the curtain."

"That's… actually good." I started typing. "And build in polls. Let the audience weigh in on next releases. Make them feel like stakeholders."

"There she is." Tia grinned. "Pour wine. This is gonna be a long night."

Two hours later, the table was buried under scribbled notes, a halfeaten takeout container, and my second glass of Cabernet. Tia was crosslegged on the floor, waving her hands midpitch about integrating livestream popups.

My phone buzzed. A name lit the screen: Julian.

I answered, speakerphone. "If this is about the analytics packet, I already, "

"Relax," Julian's voice drawled through the tinny speaker. "Just checking in on how my favorite underdog is handling Wolfe's little gladiator match."

Tia mouthed gladiator match? at me, grinning.

"Not well," I muttered. "Unless you have secret metrics you forgot to share."

A pause. Then, with a spark of amusement: "Open your email. I just sent you backend access to the test audiences from last quarter. There's data buried in there you can spin into gold."

Tia leaned toward the phone. "Wait, this is Julian?"

Julian chuckled. "Depends. Who's asking?"

"Tia. The genius roommate. I've heard about you."

"Ah," he said, voice warming with a lazy smile I could practically hear. "The infamous Tia. Now the brainstorm makes sense."

"Infamous?" she echoed, smirking. "All good things, I hope."

I blinked between them. "Guys? Earth to creative think tank?"

"Oh, right," Julian said, still sounding amused. "Anyway, dig into slide twentyfour. There's an abandoned rollout plan. Might spark something."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it.

"You've got this, Ford." His voice softened just enough to sound sincere. "And when you crush it, I want to be in the room to see Wolfe's face."

Tia grinned. "Now that is motivation."

The call ended, leaving a hum of energy in the air. I looked at Tia, who was already scanning the new data.

She pushed a sticky note toward me, eyes bright. "We're doing this. Tonight."

I took a breath, feeling the knot in my chest loosen just enough to let determination settle in.

"Yeah," I said, fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Let's show him what impossible looks like."

By the time I stepped off the elevator the next morning, the city outside was still stretching awake. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, but adrenaline had me upright and moving. The pitch deck in my hands felt heavier than it should, like it contained not just a campaign, but my entire dignity.

The bullpen hummed with low chatter. Claire was already in the conference room, tablet in hand. A few of the junior strategists perked up when they saw me. I walked in, set my deck on the table, and tried not to notice the empty chair at the head.

Then the door opened, and Adrian Wolfe strolled in.

Crisp charcoal suit. That same unreadable calm. He didn't look at anyone, until his eyes found mine. He paused just enough to let me feel it, then took his seat and flipped his pen between his fingers.

Claire gestured to me. "Ford, you said you had revisions for the Mirabelle campaign?"

I nodded, heartbeat thudding in my ears, and plugged in my laptop. The first slide lit up on the screen behind me. "I rebuilt the framework overnight. We've been chasing numbers. I want to chase moments instead."

I clicked through each point, the words tumbling out smoother than I'd expected:

 Short-form behindthescenes clips from the vineyard.

 A live influencer tasting streamed during golden hour.

 Micro-polls built directly into the campaign for engagement.

 A limited interactive offer that feels exclusive but scales.

I breathed between each section, scanning faces. Claire's brows lifted, impressed. A strategist whispered something to another, nodding. Even the usually unflappable Julian sat forward, eyes crinkling in a quiet smile.

Adrian said nothing.

I reached the last slide, palms damp. "Projected lift, forty percent engagement improvement based on test audiences and retargeted spend." I let the silence hang for a beat, then shut the laptop softly. "Questions?"

Claire spoke first. "This is a complete shift in tone. Bold. I like it." She looked at Adrian. "Wolfe?"

He was still leaning back in his chair, pen poised between his fingers, eyes fixed on me. "Show me the micro-poll structure."

I slid the annotated page across the table. He took it, scanning silently, then set it down with a soft tap. His gaze lifted again, dark and unwavering. "You built this overnight?"

"Yes," I said evenly.

His jaw ticked, just barely. A faint shadow of something, surprise? amusement?, passed through his eyes. "Not bad, Ford."

Not bad. That was it. No smile, no admission. Just those words, clipped and low, as if he didn't dare say more in front of the room.

Claire was already moving on. "All right, integrate these changes into the rollout. Good work, Jasmine."

I gathered my papers, keeping my chin high, ignoring the way my hands still trembled slightly. As the meeting broke up, Julian passed behind me and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, "Wolfe's face was priceless."

I almost smiled.

But then I caught Adrian's gaze again across the table, steady, quiet, a little too intense, and the smile slipped. He didn't say a word as I walked out, but I felt it.

The game wasn't over.

The hum of the soda machine was the only sound in the lunchroom.

I leaned against the counter, nursing a paper cup of stale coffee, trying to let the caffeine claw me back to life. The deck had been a success, Claire's reaction proved that, but my shoulders were still tight from holding myself together all morning.

The door clicked open behind me.

I didn't have to turn. I could feel him.

Adrian's presence filled the room like a change in air pressure.

"You didn't just meet the deadline," he said quietly, voice low and unhurried, "you buried it."

I set the cup down and pivoted, back pressing lightly against the counter. "Don't sound so surprised."

He didn't smile. He just stepped closer, hands in his pockets, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft latch. The lunchroom suddenly felt smaller.

"You hate losing, don't you?" His tone was almost amused, but his eyes, dark and steady, didn't waver from mine.

"I hate manipulation," I shot back. "And you? You specialize in it."

Another step, slow, deliberate. "It worked, didn't it?"

My pulse jumped. "You call that working?"

He was close enough now that I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way a lock of dark hair had slipped out of place near his temple. He braced one hand on the counter beside me, then the other, effectively caging me in.

"You didn't answer me," he said softly.

"Answer you?"

"My invitation." His voice dipped, softer now, intimate. "Rehearsal Friday. Wedding Saturday. I'll handle everything. You just show up."

My breath caught. "You think you can trap me into a date with you?"

His eyes narrowed in something between a smirk and a challenge. "Would you rather sit across from your emotionally distant ex for two nights?"

The words landed like a jolt. My fingers tightened around the paper cup. "How do you even know about Chris?"

Adrian's mouth curved, slow and maddening. He leaned in, so close I could feel the heat of him, his voice brushing my ear.

"I know more than you think, Jasmine."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I should have stepped back. I didn't. His hands stayed planted on the counter, his gaze locked on mine, dark and unreadable. For a fraction of a second, his face was close enough that if either of us moved, his mouth would be on mine.

And then, he pushed away, releasing the counter, his eyes lingering on me like he'd left a question hanging in the air.

"Think about it," he murmured, stepping back toward the door.

He didn't wait for my answer. The door swung open, and he was gone, leaving me pinned against the counter, breath shallow, mind spinning.