Page 5 of Mile High Ex's Dad
Still, the name sits oddly in my chest.
Not because Ethan is rare. It isn’t. It’s painfully normal. Familiar in the most irritating way possible. The kind of name that can still carry the shape of someone else’s smirk years after you’ve deleted his number and trained yourself not to look for his face in crowded restaurants.
I shut the binder.
No. Absolutely not.
This Ethan is a groom on a schedule. A client. A line item in a weekend I need to get through with grace, efficiency, and preferably no emotional damage.
I grab my phone, my bag, and the emergency kit I never show up without, then step out into the rain.
The cold catches me first, sharp and damp against my skin, and then the scale of the estate settles over me all at once. The front entrance glows under iron lanterns, stone steps shining dark with rain, the whole place standing there like it knows exactly how impressive it is.
A pair of staff members in black hurry across the front drive carrying garment bags and floral crates. Someone farther offis speaking into a headset with the crisp, exhausted tone of a person already on their third problem of the afternoon.
Good. My people.
I head inside.
The foyer is even more obscene than the exterior promised. Marble floor, sweeping staircase, arrangements of white roses and pale greenery already positioned with the kind of deliberate care that says each stem has probably been discussed at length by at least three expensive adults.
A young man in a black suit near the entry turns the second I step in. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say, shifting the binder against my hip. “Sienna Vale. I’m stepping in for Talia Mercer on coordination.”
His entire posture changes at once. “Of course. We were told to expect you.”
Told to expect me.
That shouldn’t feel ominous, and yet.
He gestures toward the hall to the left. “Hospitality suite is being staged. Rehearsal setup is on schedule. Catering has already begun final placement in the dining room. Ms. Laurent’s assistant has asked twice whether the candles are the exact correct ivory, so I assume things are proceeding normally.”
I smile despite myself. “A very comforting benchmark. Thank you.”
He almost smiles back, then catches himself and glances at the binder in my arms. “Do you need someone to walk you through current placements?”
“Yes, please.”
A woman with a sleek bun and a discreet earpiece appears from somewhere to my right, all competence and speed. “I can take over.”
Perfect.
She introduces herself as Nadine, head of house staff, and within thirty seconds we’re moving through the first-floor rooms while she updates me in quick, precise bursts.
Cocktail hour has been shifted fifteen minutes later because of the weather.
The string quartet arrived early.
The florist is brilliant but temperamental.
The bride’s mother is not to be offered sparkling water in stemless glasses because she thinks they look cheap.
There’s a backup seating chart in the study.
The bride changed the signature cocktail names twice and may change them again.
I nod, absorb, ask the right questions. This part is easy. Not the workload. The performance of ease.
