Chapter 15 Day 1 wedding preparations
The golden sunlight filtering through the glass-paneled penthouse of the Wentworth residence barely softened the tension in the air. Elena sat cross-legged on the cream velvet couch, a tall mug of untouched latte balanced on her palm, and a printed guest list spread across the coffee table before her. Jaxon stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, his eyes scanning the same list with detached interest.
“Can you believe this list is three pages long and still missing half the people my mom wants?” Elena asked, breaking the silence with a half-laugh, half-sigh.
“Correction,” Jaxon said dryly. “Half the people your mom wants and half the people my mom will end up inviting anyway.”
Elena smirked, then looked back down at the highlighted names. “So far, I’ve seen the Mayor, two senators, five fashion house owners, and three reality TV stars. But… no Caleb Donovan.”
At that, Jaxon’s head snapped up.
“Yeah,” she said, pointing at the paper. “I looked. Twice.”
“He wasn’t invited,” Jaxon said, clipped. “He doesn’t belong at this event.”
Elena raised a brow. “Considering the rumors swirling around you two—”
“He’s not coming,” Jaxon interrupted, his voice sharper now. “And I’m not handing him another opportunity to make a spectacle out of something that should be about us.”
She didn’t argue, but his words lingered. Something that should be about us. Even now, the ‘us’ still felt like a costume—tailored, glittering, expensive, and utterly temporary.
The double doors opened and Vivienne Montclair walked in like she was floating across a runway—impeccably dressed in a pale lavender pantsuit, her silver-blonde bob tucked neatly behind one ear. A clipboard in hand and her phone pinned between her shoulder and cheek, she waved vaguely at them both before snapping at someone on the line.
“No, Jonathan, I said lilacs and white roses, not carnations—God, do I look like a woman who tolerates carnations?” Pause. “Perfect. Send me another mock-up by tonight.”
She ended the call, exhaled, and turned to face them with a bright smile.
“I just stopped by to tell you both the venue is nearly ready,” she said, pressing a kiss to Elena’s cheek, then nodding at Jaxon. “The decorators are working overtime. I’ve requested floor-to-ceiling chandeliers, a custom floral arch for the main stage, and three different champagne fountains. Oh, and I added another ten names to the guest list. Mostly foreign dignitaries and royalty types.”
“Of course you did,” Elena muttered under her breath.
Vivienne placed a manicured hand on her hip. “Sweetheart, this isn’t just an engagement party. This is history. This is society’s golden couple finally making it official. The press will be there. Vogue wants exclusive access. We have one week to make sure this is flawless.”
“And Caleb Donovan is absolutely not invited,” Jaxon added, his tone final.
Vivienne didn’t even blink. “Of course not. He’s toxic PR. This party is to build your image, not burn it.”
She checked her watch. “I need to get back to the venue. The lighting designer just flew in from Milan, and I don’t trust the assistants not to blind the pianist with LEDs. I’ll text you both the updated guest list by noon. And, Elena,” she paused, her eyes softening, “please try not to disappear before the interviews next week. The press is already salivating over this.”
“I’ll be there,” Elena promised with a tight smile.
As Vivienne swept out of the room like a force of nature, the silence left behind was almost deafening.
One week. One party. One perfect illusion to uphold.
Elena exhaled and turned to Jaxon. “You sure about not inviting Caleb?”
Jaxon didn’t answer immediately. He just looked out the window toward the sun-drenched skyline of Los Angeles and said quietly, “He doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near you.”
As Elena started gathering the papers back into a neat stack, the suite’s side door creaked open, and Damon stepped in with his usual composed efficiency. His navy shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a gleaming silver watch, and his tablet was tucked neatly under one arm.
“Sir,” Damon said, nodding slightly. “Your mother’s been trying to reach you. She’s on the line.”
Jaxon groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Of course she is.”
“She said it’s urgent,” Damon added.
Jaxon accepted the phone Damon handed him and walked a few paces toward the tall windows overlooking the city. “Mom?”
“Jaxon!” came the overly peppy voice of Eleanor Wentworth, his mother, elegant and relentless even over the phone. “Why have you not answered my calls? Honestly, do you know how hard it is to finalize a five-star catering service when your son is MIA?”
“I didn’t know I was handling the food,” Jaxon said, half amused, half weary.
“You’re not,” she replied. “But you are expected to show your face in the photoshoot tomorrow, and I swear to God, Jaxon, if you wear one of those cold, joyless suits, I will set fire to it myself.”
Jaxon glanced toward Elena with a wry smirk, mouthing, My mom.
She chuckled softly and looked away.
Eleanor continued without pause. “The photographer from Elle is flying in tonight, the floral arrangement team will be setting up at dawn, and I had to call in three favors just to get the rooftop cleared. So you better be ready. 10 A.M. sharp. No excuses. And make sure Elena is glowing—we need a goddess, not a ghost.”
“We’ll be there,” Jaxon said flatly, rubbing his temple.
“And Damon,” she added from the other end, apparently knowing he was within earshot, “make sure my son doesn’t escape to his office and bury himself in quarterly projections again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Damon said crisply.
The call ended with a sharp click, and Jaxon slowly handed the phone back to Damon with a resigned sigh. “Looks like tomorrow we’re posing for love.”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “Better practice your fake smiles.”
“I’ve been doing them for years,” Jaxon muttered.
As the tension from the call still hung in the air, Jaxon ran a hand through his hair, then turned to find Elena watching him with a mix of amusement and quiet exhaustion.
“This is all too much,” she muttered, her fingers absently fiddling with the edge of the guest list. “All this stress... for something that isn’t even real.”
Jaxon exhaled heavily, leaning against the marble counter. “Tell me about it. Photo shoots. Guest lists. Cake tastings. And we’re supposed to look like we’re madly in love through it all.”
Elena gave a short laugh, but it was hollow. “I can barely fake a smile when I’m not mentally calculating how many ways this could go wrong.”
He looked at her for a moment, something soft flickering in his expression. “You’ve done a good job pretending so far.”
She didn’t return the smile. “That’s the thing, Jaxon. It’s all pretending. And the deeper we go, the more people we drag into the lie... I’m starting to forget where the line is.”
Jaxon’s gaze didn’t waver. “It ends in one year. That’s what we said, remember?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “One year. And then we go back to who we really are.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes flicking to the window, to the endless city skyline beyond. “Assuming we even remember who that is by then.”
Elena said nothing. The silence between them lingered—not awkward, but weighted, as if acknowledging the quiet truth they both were too tired to unpack.
Just then, Damon cleared his throat gently and stepped back toward the door, sensing the emotional shift in the room. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
Jaxon nodded.
And when the door shut behind him, they were alone again with the truth neither of them had the courage to fully say out loud.
The evening sun dipped low over Los Angeles, casting a warm amber glow through the studio windows. Elena stood in front of the full-length mirror inside their shared design workspace, holding up a gown draped in soft ivory silk. Racks of dresses—her designs, Brielle’s touches—lined the room in a wild parade of color, sequins, and impossible decisions.
Brielle twirled across the floor dramatically, a feather boa around her neck and a pair of oversized sunglasses she found buried in a prop box. “Darling,” she drawled in a faux British accent, “I simply cannot believe you’re letting that man photograph your stunning self in something as safe as ivory. You should be wearing drama. Scandal. Chaos!”
Elena arched a brow, suppressing a grin. “It’s an engagement photoshoot, not a villain’s origin story.”
Brielle gasped. “But imagine the headlines. ‘Fake heiress wows world in crimson couture while secretly plotting her fashion empire’s global domination!’” She struck a fierce pose.
Elena laughed, tossing a sequined belt at her. “You’ve clearly had too much caffeine today.”
“Or not enough.” Brielle plopped onto the velvet couch and motioned for Elena to do a slow spin. “Okay, seriously now. That dress is beautiful—but it’s a bit too... safe. It says ‘I’m engaged,’ not ‘I’m a goddess who may or may not destroy your brand with a single press release.’”
Elena narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. “And what would you suggest, oh wise one?”
Brielle leapt up and made a beeline for one of the racks. “Boom.” She pulled out a gown that shimmered with every angle—soft rose gold mesh overlay, subtle pearl detailing across the bodice, and an illusion back with delicate embroidery that caught the light like a secret. “This. This is the one.”
Elena blinked. “You made that for the Paris preview.”
“Well,” Brielle winked, “consider this a preview of your next phase—world-dominating fiancée energy.”
After a moment, Elena reached out, running her fingers across the fabric. “It is gorgeous.”
“And slightly scandalous,” Brielle added with glee. “Just enough to keep the tabloids wondering how Jaxon really landed you.”
Elena laughed. “They already think he bought me with stocks and diamonds.”
“Well, technically he did,” Brielle deadpanned, before bursting into laughter.
The two of them decided to take a break and head to a nearby boutique to pick up accessories for the photoshoot. They strolled down Melrose Avenue, iced coffees in hand, giddy from the buzz of fashion and stress and sisterhood.
That was when they heard the familiar, sharp click of designer heels behind them.
“Wow,” came a voice dipped in venom and silk, “shouldn’t you two be picking out something less... pedestrian for a photoshoot that’s supposedly making headlines?”
Elena froze. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Brielle raised a brow, slow and amused. “Maya. Just the shadow we didn’t need in this golden hour.”
Maya stood there in a fitted navy jumpsuit, sunglasses perched high on her sleek ponytail, her smirk lazy but her eyes sharp—locked onto Elena. “Oh, relax. I’m just surprised to see the bride-to-be out here shopping last minute. But then again, if Jaxon had chosen tastefully, she wouldn’t need this much prep work.”
Elena held back a smile that threatened to curl like a blade. “Well, good thing he didn’t choose based on petty remarks and insecurity.”
“Oop.” Brielle chuckled under her breath. “Touché.”
Maya’s jaw flexed subtly. “Don’t get too comfortable. Everyone knows the cameras don’t see everything.”
Elena took a step closer. “No, but they see enough. Including how desperate you look trying to insert yourself into something that’s already over.”
Brielle added, voice sing-songy, “Someone should tell her that expired milk still stinks even in designer packaging.”
With a scoff, Maya flipped her hair and strutted away, tossing one last glare over her shoulder. “See you at the engagement party… if the wedding ever happens.”
As she disappeared into the crowd, Brielle looked at Elena and whispered, “You know, if I ever turn into that, slap me with a clutch.”
Elena exhaled and shook her head. “I’ll use something heavier.”
They both laughed, letting the encounter roll off their shoulders as they returned to the studio, their energy lifted again. Elena held the rose gold gown up once more, a spark in her eyes.
“You’re right,” she said to Brielle. “This is the one.”
And as they both collapsed into the couch with mock exhaustion, dress in hand, coffee in reach, and Maya far behind them, the day ended in laughter and pearls—and a promise of chaos still to come.