Schedule the final dress fitting.
Final menu approval.
Avoid strangling the groom’s brother.
My phone buzzes. I glance at a text from Ivy.
IVY:Just posted the final countdown! I’m getting MARRIED!
I open her social media page and click through to her story. She’s in her kitchen, smiling big at the camera and surrounded by giant balloons.
The thing about Ivy is she’s not your typical influencer. She started out documenting her grandmother’s recipes before dementia took them away—hand-pulled noodles, wontons with exactly thirteen folds, the secret to perfect Mapo tofu. Real stories about food, family, and the stuff that gets lost between generations.
Now she has over thirteen million followers who tune in forCooking with Nai Nai, even though her grandmother hasn’t cooked in two years. She uses her platform to spotlight immigrant-owned restaurants, does fundraisers for Alzheimer’s research, and somehow makes meal prep look like meditation. She’s not just an influencer; she’s someone who turned grief into community. And she’s a lovely person, inside and out.
Which is why this wedding matters. It’s not just about the perfect photos or the viral moments. It’s about honoring the love story her followers have been rooting for since Mason first appeared in the background of her cooking videos, stealing dumplings and making her laugh.
I can’t mess this up.
It’s why I came out here early—this matters to me. It has to be perfect, not just for Ivy and Mason, but for me and my career.
I’m halfway through checking my phone when I hear a softsnortfrom the doorway.
I turn.
And there, standing just outside the screen door, is possibly the roundest dog I’ve ever seen.
She’s got short legs, shaggy fur, ears that stick out like fuzzy triangles, and some kind of vest velcroed snugly around her middle like a canine corset. Her face is part gremlin, part angel, and her entire vibe screams “emotional support animal with zero training and strong opinions.”
“Hi there,” I whisper, crouching slowly. “Do you live here?”
She snorts again, waddles closer, and rests her chin dramatically on the step.
I crack the door open.
“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”
She blinks at me.
“Well, join the club.”
I reach out and give her a tentative scratch behind the ears. She melts instantly into a puddle of fluff and wheezing sighs, tail thumping once, then stopping as if that was too much effort.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her. “There’s no way he’s as grumpy as he acts if he ownsyou.”
She sneezes directly on my shoe.
I grab my planner, sit on the edge of the bed, and flip to today’s tab. The sun slants warm through the window, and for the first time since the airport, I feel like I can breathe.
The venue is beautiful, the clients are sweet, the dog situation is adorable, and I’ve survived worse than a prickly property owner. I’ve got this.
I smile down at the color-coded schedule.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
IVY:Are you at the estate?? We have a MAJOR problem. Mason just told me HIS BROTHER is refusing to let us use the north lawn.
I blink.
