THE WEDDING PLANNING

THE WEDDING PLANNING
Maya's POV

Victoria Sterling's office smells like death disguised as expensive flowers, white lilies and baby's breath arranged with funeral precision while she spreads wedding vendor contracts across her mahogany desk like tarot cards predicting my romantic doom. My mother's engagement ring cuts against my palm where I've been gripping it since arriving at Elite Connections thirty minutes ago, the stolen diamond drawing blood that tastes like fifteen years of carefully orchestrated lies.

"Congratulations, Maya," Victoria says, her silver hair catching morning light streaming through windows that overlook Elliott Bay, where ferries move like ghosts carrying passengers to destinations they hope will make sense when they arrive. "Ethan called me the moment you accepted. I'm so thrilled we could facilitate such a perfect match."

The word 'facilitate' burns in my ears like confession of crimes disguised as professional service.

"I have wonderful news," Victoria continues, producing a leather portfolio thick with documents that smell of conspiracy and old secrets. "Given your timeline constraints, I've taken the liberty of securing your wedding arrangements. The venue, the caterer, the florist—everything has been confirmed for March eleventh."

Ice forms in my chest as the date registers, numbers that should represent celebration but instead mark anniversary of the night my parents died on a mountain road fifteen years ago. The coincidence tastes like metal and malice, timing too precise to be anything but deliberate.

"March eleventh?" I repeat, my voice steady despite the earthquake reshaping my understanding of everything I thought I knew about romantic efficiency and professional competence.

"Perfect timing," Victoria says, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Exactly six weeks before your inheritance deadline, allowing plenty of time for honeymoon and settling into married life before your thirtieth birthday. I thought you'd appreciate the symbolic significance."

The symbolic significance of marrying my parents' killer's son on the anniversary of their murder, while wearing my mother's stolen engagement ring and celebrating at venues selected by people who've been planning this ceremony longer than I've known my fiancé exists.

"The Fairmont Olympic," Victoria continues, sliding glossy photographs across her desk like evidence from crime scenes disguised as luxury hospitality. "I've reserved the Spanish Ballroom for both ceremony and reception. The space accommodates exactly the guest list Ethan provided—intimate gathering of family and close friends, nothing ostentatious or attention-grabbing."

My throat closes around questions I can't ask without revealing that I know this entire romance is elaborate performance art designed to deliver me to my enemies wrapped in white silk and wedding vows.

"When did Ethan provide a guest list?" I manage, studying photographs of crystal chandeliers and marble floors that will serve as backdrop for whatever ritual Elena Cross has planned to complete her family's revenge.

Victoria's pause lasts exactly three seconds too long. "Last week, during our preliminary consultation. He was so excited about the possibility of proposing, wanted to ensure everything would be perfect if you said yes."

The lie slides between us smooth as silk wrapped around razors. Ethan had been planning wedding details before proposing, coordinating with the matchmaker who works for his family's shell companies while I believed I was desperate enough to pay for manufactured love.

"I'd love to see the guest list," I say, testing the boundaries of whatever performance we're all delivering.

Victoria's hands flutter over documents like birds avoiding predators. "Of course, though I'm sure Ethan will want to discuss any modifications with you personally. The initial list includes Elena Cross, several family friends, your colleague Sarah Kim—such a lovely woman, by the way. She was very helpful when I called to confirm dietary restrictions."

My blood turns to ice water. "You called Sarah?"

"Just yesterday," Victoria says, her voice carrying satisfaction that makes my skin crawl. "She seemed so excited about your engagement, mentioned how perfectly Ethan complements your personality. Apparently you've been much happier since meeting him—less anxious about the inheritance situation, more optimistic about the future."

Sarah's psychology training, documented in text messages to James Morrison, now being discussed with the matchmaker who orchestrated my romantic destruction. The surveillance network around me has been masquerading as support system, professional concern disguised as friendship while everyone I trust reports my emotional state to people planning my elimination.

"The caterer is André Laurent," Victoria continues, producing another contract signed in handwriting I don't recognize. "Classically trained, specializes in French cuisine with Pacific Northwest influences. Elena Cross specifically requested his services—apparently he catered Richard Cross's funeral reception fifteen years ago."

The revelation hits like physical blow, understanding that the food served at my wedding will be prepared by the same chef who fed mourners at my parents' killer's funeral, symbolic cannibalism disguised as culinary sophistication.

"How thoughtful of Elena," I say, each word scraped from a throat that tastes like copper pennies and inevitability.

Victoria beams like she's delivered wonderful news instead of confirmation that my wedding is being planned by people who view it as funeral rite rather than romantic celebration. "Elena has been incredibly helpful with all the arrangements. She has such exquisite taste, such attention to detail. You're very fortunate to be joining a family with such strong traditions."

The vendor contracts spread across Victoria's desk like evidence of conspiracy disguised as wedding planning: florist who designed arrangements for Cross Technologies' corporate events, photographer who documented Elena's charity galas, musicians who performed at Richard Cross's memorial service. Every professional involved in my wedding ceremony has previous connections to the Cross family, ensuring that my romantic destruction will be documented and celebrated by people who've been complicit in fifteen years of elaborate revenge plotting.

"The dress appointment is this afternoon," Victoria says, consulting her calendar with the efficiency of someone who's been planning this ceremony longer than I've known my fiancé exists. "Kleinfeld Seattle, private consultation with their most exclusive designer. Elena insisted on accompanying you—such a thoughtful future mother-in-law, wanting to share this special moment."

My chest tightens around air that tastes like funeral flowers and expensive lies. Elena Cross, who spent last night showing me photographs of my parents' final terrified weeks, now wants to help me select the white dress I'll wear while marrying her son on the anniversary of my family's murder.

"I should probably discuss the timeline with Ethan," I say, testing whether I have any agency in wedding plans that have been orchestrated without my knowledge or consent.

"Of course," Victoria says, but her tone suggests discussion is purely ceremonial, decisions already finalized by people who view my opinions as irrelevant to their larger agenda. "Though I wouldn't recommend too many changes at this point. March eleventh has such beautiful symmetry—the date when everything began, now becoming the date when everything is completed."

The words hang in air thick with implication while Victoria smiles like she's delivered romantic poetry instead of confirmation that my wedding date was selected to commemorate my parents' murder, symbolic completion of crimes that began fifteen years ago and will be consummated when their daughter becomes legal property of their killer's family.

"Beautiful symmetry," I repeat, my voice hollow with understanding that marriage won't make me Cross family member but Cross family victim, final payment for debts my parents never owed.

Victoria closes her portfolio with sounds like coffin lids sealing, wedding planning complete for ceremony designed to serve as public execution disguised as romantic celebration. Outside her windows, Elliott Bay reflects gray Seattle sky while ferries carry passengers toward destinations that make sense only to people who know where the boats are really going.

My mother's engagement ring burns against my finger like brand marking me as property of people who murdered the woman who wore it first, while wedding vendors who catered her killer's funeral prepare to celebrate the completion of his family's fifteen-year revenge plot against the daughter who survived long enough to deliver herself into their hands wrapped in white silk and wedding vows.

The wedding isn't celebration of love—it's ritual sacrifice of the last surviving member of the Reeves family, scheduled for the anniversary of her parents' death and orchestrated by people who view romance as weapon rather than emotion, marriage as conquest rather than partnership.