Page 38 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

We got the apartment.

I remember standing in front of that building with Aisha, both of us pretending we weren’t nervous, like we hadn’t rehearsed what we were going to say three times in the car.

I had Blue on my hip, barely a few months old then, too small to understand anything but still somehow the center of every decision I was making.

I got the business. It started small. One event. Then another. Birthdays. Intimate dinners. A rushed engagement party that nearly broke me but didn’t.

I learned fast.

How to listen to what people say and what they don’t. How to take a feeling, a half-formed idea, and turn it into something you can walk into, breathe in, remember. Lighting that unwinds everything. Flowers that don’t just sit pretty but say something. Timing that feels effortless, even when it’s anything but.

Then weddings came. Brides who want perfection but don’t know how to ask for it. Families with opinions. Grooms who disappear until the last minute. And me, holding it all together, stitching chaos into something seamless.

And then I watched Blue take her first step. It happened in the middle of everything.

The floor was still damp from where Aisha had just cleaned it, the faint scent of detergent hanging in the air, my laptop open but forgotten on my lap.

Blue had been moving around the room the way she always did then, curious, determined, completely unaware of how small she still was.

She pulled herself up against the couch, tiny fingers gripping the edge, her body swaying like it hadn’t decided if it trusted itself yet.

Then she let go.

I exhale slowly, the thought of her settling into me differently than everything else.

She wasn’t part of the plan either. But she became everything.

And Aisha… God, Aisha. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just showed up and stayed. And I didn’t realize how rare that was until I had it.

The light turns green.

I move forward.

Today matters. This client matters. It's high budget, private, and with a stiff timeline.

This is the kind of job that changes things if I get it right.

And I will.

Because I don’t have the luxury of not getting it right.

I arrive at the restaurant, Velvet & Vine. Glass front, black and gold detailing that catches the sunlight just enough to feel intentional, not excessive.

Inside, it’s quieter.

Polished floors, low lighting despite the morning, tables spaced just far enough to feel intimate without being isolated. Fresh flowers sit at every table, not overdone, just enough to remind you someone thought about it.

I’m early.

Of course, I am.

I smooth my plaid skirt as I’m led to the reserved table, setting my folder down, pulling out notes I’ve already memorized but need to see anyway.

I run through it all again: the timing, layout, lighting cues, and floral placements.

A few minutes later, Celine arrives.

She's a supermodel, tall, airy, with blonde hair falling like it’s been styled without trying. Her skin is flawless in a way that doesn’t feel real. She moves like she’s used to being watched and doesn’t care anymore.