Rose absorbed this, her eyes narrowing as she calculated the risks. “Prime Esque produces the show?”
Lizanne crossed her legs. “It was in the NDA.”
“Of course. So, to accommodate them, the aisle width has to account for a Steadicam rig. And the lighting has to be built for the lens, not just the ambiance.” She looked at Lizanne steadily.
“I’m aware.”
“I want to make sure we’re talking about the same thing,” Rose said. “Some clients hear ‘television’ and think it means prettier. It means more difficult. It means cables under the rugs and microphones in the centerpieces.”
“Miss Delaney,” Lizanne said, her voice dropping that octave again—the one she used when she wanted to remind people who was in charge. “Are you telling me my own wedding will be complicated?”
“I’m telling you it will be if you want it done right.” Rose didn’t flinch. “Which I assume you do, or you wouldn’t be interviewing multiple planners for a job that should have started yesterday, given the six-week timeframe.”
Lizanne found she wasn’t entirely opposed to being challenged. It was a refreshing change from the sycophants Trina usually dragged home. But there was one thing missing—a sense of shared experience.
“Are you married, Rose?” Lizanne asked. The pivot was a sharp left turn, designed to catch her off guard.
Rose took it in stride. “No.”
“Have you been?”
“No.”
“The other two planners I’m considering have forty years of marriage between them,” Lizanne said, leaning back. “They’ve planned their own. This isn’t just a logistics exercise. It’s supposed to mean something. I worry that, having never been a bride, you don’t understand the emotional stakes. You seem to understand the production, but do you understand the heart?”
Rose was quiet for a heartbeat. Lizanne thought she had her—thought the girl was finally rattled. But then Rose’s posture shifted, a subtle straightening of the spine.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t getting married,” Rose said. Their eyes met, blue clashing with dark brown.
“Oh?” Lizanne waited.
“My fiancé and I are marrying on December fourteenth,” Rose said. “I’ve been planning it alongside my client work. If anything, it’s been useful—having a project where I personally feel the stakes every time a vendor calls.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
Rose shrugged and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t like to mix my personal life with my professional one. It’s messy. But since it matters to you: we’re planning a winter theme because we met at a ski resort. White birch, hanging candles, the entire ceiling dressed in greenery. It’s the most demanding thing I’ve ever designed.”
She held the pause.
“And I know exactly why every detail matters. Because when I look at the guest list, I’m not seeing numbers. I’m seeing my life.”
“A winter wedding,” Lizanne mused. “And your fiancé is—”
“Derek. An attorney,” Rose said. “Lizanne, I know the moving parts. But I also know what’s at the heart of the day.”
The corner of Lizanne’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close enough. She stood, ending the meeting with the practiced grace of a woman who was used to having the last word. “Submit a full design concept by Friday. Regency Chic is the theme. But I want it elevated—not a costume party. No trashy gold leaf.”
“That’s fair,” Rose said, standing and smoothing her Chanel.
They shook hands. Rose’s grip was quick, firm.
“The timeline is tight. The network wants to start shooting ASAP,” she said while still shaking her hand.
“I wondered about that.” Rose let go.
“Ideally, I would have liked to have a few months to plan all of this, but six weeks is all we have. Think you can manage?”
“I know I can.”
