Page 2 of Broken Vows

Later that night, she handed me her business card, said she had an eye for talent, had noticed my knack for putting people at ease—champagne-fiasco aside—and insisted I visit her office the following Monday. I stood there, beaming, and fumbled a shocked “thank you.” When she’d left, I looked down and read: Sydney Thompson, owner of Shades of White, a wedding planning business.

That following Monday, in a half-priced clearance business suit two sizes too big, I was ushered into a room filled with people just like me—nervous, overdressed, and clearly more qualified. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just a meeting. Sydney had invited me to interview. My gut sank. I wasn’t special as I’d naively thought. My name being called was the only thing that stopped me from bolting. Even though my knees shook, I pulled my shoulders back and walked into her office.

She sat there, calm and unreadable, as I stumbled through her questions. By the end of the interview, the only thing I knew was that I was painfully unqualified.

But later that day, one phone call changed my life forever with two words: You’re hired. And I’ve spent five years desperate to prove she made the right decision.

In the bathroom, I swipe my pinky across my cheekbone to catch a few rogue mascara flakes and add a dot of concealer under my eyes to mask the seven years’ worth of sleepless nights since the incident that changed my life in Boston. I need to look presentable and professional, and nothing screams poised and prepared like purple halos.

When I step back into the office, Justin’s standing at my desk, holding two coffees. “Not only are you cute, but you can read minds. Do you ever get tired of being a superhero?” I say, practically ripping the mug from his grip and guzzling some much-needed caffeine. “What a shitastic morning. I miss my old apartment where the outlets didn’t randomly fizzle out. I swear my place is a walking fire hazard. What did I miss?”

He sits at the desk adjoining mine and takes a sip. “Not much, but Sydney is driving full speed ahead on the struggle bus today.”

“I don’t think people say that phrase anymore,” I say. “The algorithm sucked you into some suburban mom bullshit.”

“Whatever.” Justin flips open his laptop. “It’s weird, though, right? We all signed the NDA, but she still won’t give us any details. This couple must be huge.”

He’s not wrong. The buzz of heightened energy crackles in the air. The office is normally lively, but today something’s different. From the hushed rumblings of co-workers scooting from desk to desk taking bets if the clients are celebrities or politicians, to Sydney’s abnormal skittishness, there’s an extra charge. Something big is about to happen, and we all know it.

As I take a seat, I cringe at Sydney. She’s spritzing the plants with a lemongrass-scented synthetic spray, and feverishly wiping them with a cloth. Yikes. Is she trying to kill our office greenery? I open my mouth, but Justin shakes his head at me, probably knowing I’m about to say something dumb. I promptly anchor my lip between my teeth. My mouth has gotten me into trouble before and now is not the time to point out that dousing plants with cleaning products might not be her brightest idea. Clearly whoever this mystery client is, they’re big enough to make her dust imaginary specks from every surface. But if she comes over here with a lint brush and a can of hair spray, she’s getting tackled.

A flutter of nerves moves through my stomach. Although I was raised by a single, hard-working mom who worked double shifts as a hotel housekeeper to feed and house us, I’m not impervious to being around big names. When I was twenty-one, I worked as a hostess at a high-end restaurant and once a month or so brushed shoulders with a celebrity. My former manager used to say I had to strike a perfect balance between subservient and confident. People who ate at these types of restaurants wanted to feel us taking care of them, without us telling them.

I learned how to smile, charm, and seduce. The three main tools in my arsenal.

Seduction doesn’t always mean sex. People love to feel wanted. Desired. Special. Male, female, it doesn’t matter.

So maybe this is a celebrity who hired out our small firm to handle the nuptials. And maybe it’s just some anonymous rich businessperson. Either way, I’ll do whatever it takes for them to fall in love with me. Nothing will stop me from cinching this promotion.

At least, this is what I keep repeating to myself because I’m way more nervous than I want to be. I place a hand on my stomach and tell it to calm the hell down.

“Lexie! Justin! Hurry, up,” Sydney yells and waves at us from across the room. “They’re coming!”

I bolt up from my chair as Sydney props open our glass doors, and we all face the elevator. Justin stands next to her, and I’m positioned the way she likes me, a few steps behind—the dutiful assistant wedding planner, ready to take notes, smile, and kiss whatever ass needs kissing. I run a flat palm down the snug pencil skirt that’s hugging my curves and take a breath. Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. It’s more than just nervousness, I’m so curious to meet this mystery couple. My smile spreads as the numbers on the elevator counter rise.

Ping. The elevator door opens, and a slow thud starts in my chest. Wow. Standing in front of me is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. It’s impossible not to compare myself. She’s such a perfect feminine specimen, she might as well have been created by AI. Sharp, high cheekbones. Shiny Caribbean-blue eyes. Dark chocolate-brown hair. Her tiny waist is the same size as my left boob. She holds an effortless, glowing beauty and looks like boarding schools and generational wealth.

My eyes drop to her hand that must be folding under the weight of a ten-carat diamond, with her fingers clasped around another hand. My gaze travels up until it settles on a face. In a flash, everything changes. Like I bumped into an electrical fence, I stumble back and freeze. The blood drains from my cheeks as I take in those eyes, that no matter how much over the years I tried to drink, fuck, cry, or scream away the memory, I’ll never forget.

Standing in gray slacks and a sharp navy button-down with tattoos peeking out from precisely single-rolled cuffed sleeves, is Theodore Astor.

The man who ruined my life.

2 Lexie

The high-pitch ringing in my ears spreads to my head and nausea travels to my stomach. This can’t be happening. Justin’s smile fades as his gaze sweeps mine. Sydney says something to me, her smile pained and unmoving, but the ringing is too loud and disorientating and I can’t make out the words.

I’m not here, in the office. I’m back there. In Boston. Seven years ago.

I’m going to be sick.

“Lexie.” The snap in Sydney’s tone pulls me into reality and I blink through the red spots invading my vision.

“Ah.” I clear my throat, and take a tentative step forward. “Yes.”

Sydney flashes me a concerned look but doesn’t drop her smile. “This is Lexie,” she says, waving her hand towards me like I’m a prize at the fair, “an assistant coordinator who’ll be helping us plan your very special day.”

My breath locks as I wait for the reaction of the man who destroyed everything. Will he drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness? Hide in shame? Storm out, cheeks flaming, without looking me in the eye like a cowardly piece of shit?