Staff move in well-practiced silence, making final adjustments. A server straightens a wineglass by half an inch. Another replaces a fork. Somewhere in the next room, I hear the muted clink of trays being staged for cocktail service.
I walk the room with my binder open, checking table numbers, confirming family placement, making sure the last-minute revision to the seating chart actually made it onto paper. Nadine updates me on arrivals. The florist is finished. The quartet is in place. The bride’s cousins are already drinking in one of the sitting rooms. Which, frankly, feels like exactly the kind of detail I should know.
For the first time since I got here, I feel it. That tiny click when panic gives way to process. I know how to do this.
Weddings are all illusion, really. The trick is making everyone believe perfection happened naturally when in fact it was builtout of backup plans, spreadsheets, lies, and someone in sensible underwear moving heaven and earth behind the scenes.
Tonight, that someone is me.
I’m checking the escort table in the foyer when a woman’s voice sounds behind me.
“These are too low.”
I turn. Ethan’s mother stands at the base of the staircase in a gown the color of dark champagne, diamonds cool at her throat, her blonde hair swept into something elegant and severe. She’s the sort of woman who has probably never once rushed for a cab or checked a price tag before trying something on. Beautiful, preserved, and visibly offended by most of life.
I’ve never met his parents, but I once caught her picture in his phone when he was on a call with her.
Her gaze is fixed on the candles.
“The pillars,” she says, as if I should have known. “They’re too low. They make the table look squat.”
I school my face instantly. “I can have them raised.”
“Yes,” she says. “You can.” No hello. No introduction. No pretense of manners.
Then her eyes move over me, not quickly, not slowly, just thoroughly enough to make clear she sees everything she considers worth judging.
“This isn’t Talia.”
“No,” I say. “I’m Sienna Vale. I’m stepping in for the weekend.”
“I see.” The pause that follows does not mean she sees anything kindly. “Well. Do try not to improvise.” And with that she glides away toward the drawing room, leaving behind a trail of perfume and condescension.
I stare after her for half a second, then turn to the candles.
“Raise them,” I tell one of the setup staff quietly. He nods and gets to work.
Fine. If that’s how tonight wants to go, I can do that too.
The guests begin arriving in earnest twenty minutes later. The foyer fills with voices, air-kisses, expensive coats handed off to waiting staff, the low rise and fall of old-money conversation. Women in silk and velvet. Men in black tuxedos and dark suits. Jewelry catching the light. Laughter already sharpened by champagne. The quartet starts in the next room, servers emerge with trays, and everything slides into motion.
I move through it all with a fixed smile and a clipboard, answering questions before they’re asked, redirecting a confused uncle, handling a missing place card, steering one of the bride’s tipsy cousins away from the wrong champagne display. A bartender asks about the signature cocktails. A florist asks where to stash an emergency box of replacement blooms. Camille’s assistant nearly cries over a ribbon that is “creamy” instead of “soft ivory,” and I solve that too.
I have it under control, I think. Or close enough to pass.
I’m near the entrance to the dining room when Ethan appears at my elbow.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “You’re still here.”
I turn my head. He’s already half smiling, champagne in one hand, tuxedo immaculate, looking every bit the polished groom guests will call handsome and women his mother’s age will call a catch.
“I am,” I say.
He lets his gaze travel over me and gives a little laugh. “I thought you’d have left by now.”
I keep my face composed. “Why would I?”
His smile widens.