An actual butler opened the door. Rose stepped into the foyer and was immediately hit by the air-conditioned silence of true wealth. The air tasted different here: filtered, expensive, and faintly scented with sandalwood.
A woman cut across the entrance hall with a speed that suggested every second was being billed. She wore a black suit and a ponytail pulled so tight it looked like a surgical procedure. Pat Seahorn – Lizanne Connors’ right-hand woman.
“Miss Delaney.” Pat didn’t slow down, gesturing for Rose to follow. “She has thirty minutes. There’s another planner from a firm in San Francisco arriving at two o’clock. I’d suggest getting straight to the point. No fluff.”
The “other planner” comment hit Rose but she didn’t let her stride waver. She had expected competition. A star like Lizanne Connors didn’t just hire the first person who sent a portfolio.
“Understood,” Rose said.
“Has the team taken you through the NDA?”
“I’ve signed the standard one sent via email.”
“There’s an additional one. Different scope.” Pat stopped at a pair of massive glass doors and handed Rose a physical piece of paper and a pen. “Read it. Sign it.”
Rose skimmed the document. Her eyes caught the phrasePrime Esqueandunscripted series. Reality television. Lizanne Connors and her fiancée, the enigmatic music mogul Trina Holmes, were selling the first year of their marriage to a globalnetwork. That explained the tight six-week timeline. It wasn’t just a wedding; it was a production schedule.
Rose signed it, though her heart was hammering.
“She’ll be right with you,” Pat said, taking the paper and vanishing into the depths of the house.
Rose was left alone in a living room that felt more like a museum gallery. A grand piano sat in the corner, sheet music for a Chopin nocturne scattered on the stand—a performance of “lived-in” charm that felt a little too perfect. She walked to the bookshelves, her heels silent on the thick, cream-colored rug. She studied the silver-framed photos. Lizanne was in all of them, radiating the kind of effortless gravity that made everyone else in the frame look like an extra. There was one photo of Trina—dark, assured, and looking entirely disinterested in the camera’s gaze.
Six weeks. They wanted to plan the wedding of the decade in six weeks, while being filmed for a global audience, all while maintaining the “perfect” image of a Hollywood power couple.
It was a nightmare. It was a logistical suicide mission. And it was exactly the kind of miracle Rose needed to pay off her debt.
She heard footsteps on the stairs.
Then Lizanne Connors walked into the room. Rose had seen her in a dozen movies and on the small screen, but the high-definition screen had flattened her. In person, Lizanne was an event. She wore a simple white silk blouse and trousers, but she carried the air of someone who had never had to check a bank balance in her life.
Lizanne stopped. Her piercing blue eyes swept over Rose. They lingered for a fraction of a second on Rose’s worn blazer, then on her “battle” lipstick.
Without a word of greeting, Lizanne turned on her heel and walked right back out of the room. Rose stood frozen, her heart plummeting into her stomach.
Was that it? Did I just lose the job because of my blazer?The silence of the room felt like it was suffocating her. She had been there for less than five minutes, and one of the most famous women in the world had just taken one look at her and bolted.
Chapter 2
Lizanne
Lizanne marched out of the room exactly thirty seconds after entering it. She had barely laid eyes on the woman waiting in the gallery when her phone had vibrated against her hip.
The text was from Trina.
Can’t make it.
Shit. Again? Lizanne felt a familiar, hot prickle of irritation behind her eyes. She stood in the hallway, the cool marble floor beneath her feet feeling like a pedestal she hadn’t asked to stand on.
Why not?
Delayed. Session is running over. I’ll be there for the second one. Or is it the third? Honey bee, you don’t really need me to pick a planner anyway. Do you?
Lizanne stared at the screen.
I suppose not.
She didn’tneedTrina to help her choose a vendor, but she wanted her there to choose a life. This was their wedding and yet Trina was treating it like a mandatory dental cleaning. A thumbs-up icon appeared next to her last message. Lizanne stared at that digital thumb longer than she cared to admit, feeling the silence in the massive house.
