Page 39 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“Christine.” She smiles as she approaches, her voice is soft and curated.

“Celine,” I stand, shaking her hand.

Up close, she’s even more striking. Blue eyes, piercing but not cold, her presence balanced between elegance and something slightly restless underneath.

“Have you been here long?” She asks as she settles into the seat across from me, gliding easily into the room.

“Not too long,” I reply, closing my folder halfway but not fully, keeping one foot in work even as we exchange the necessary pleasantries.

She smiles, already scanning the space like she’s measuring it against something in her head.

“I hate being late,” she adds, smoothing a hand over her classic pink dress, a soft, expensive fabric that clings just enough to remind you of the body beneath it. “But everything feels like it’s running away from me this week.”

“That’s normal this close to the wedding,” I offer, smiling with understanding. “We’re just brushing over the details now.”

She exhales, relieved to be handed something light, something that makes sense.

And just like that, we start.

“The floral arch needs to be fuller,” she dives in immediately, flipping through the sketches. “I want it to feel like it’s overflowing, but not messy.”

“Contained abundance,” I nod, already making the adjustment.

“Yes,” she smiles brightly, “I love that.”

I slide the next sheet toward her, turning it slightly so she can see the layout from her angle.

“We’ll layer the florals instead of stacking them. It’ll feel like it’s spilling, but still contained.”

“Good.” She nods, tapping lightly on the page. “I don’t want anything that looks accidental. Everything should feel… intentional.”

“It will,” I assure her, jotting something down. “We’ll also soften the base with greenery so it doesn’t feel too bland.”

She nods, satisfied, already moving on.

“The lighting,” she waves her hand in the air, glancing up briefly at the space around us like she’s trying to imagine it transformed. “I want it warm. I don't want yellow, not too dim. Just… flattering.”

“Golden hour, but toned down,” I respond. “We’ll use layered lighting. Overhead stays minimal, candles and floor lighting do most of the work. It’ll feel intimate without losing visibility.”

“Wow.” Her lips curve. “You get it.”

I do.

That’s why I’m here.

We move through timelines next. Entrance cues. Music transitions. Where she stands. Where he stands. How long everything should last before it starts to feel like too much.

I keep it moving, guiding when needed, adjusting where necessary, keeping everything from slipping into chaos.

But she doesn’t stay with me the whole time.

Her attention drifts. It’s subtle at first. A glance toward the entrance, then back to me.

Then again.

Her fingers pause on the page a second too long before she continues, her smile just slightly thinner now.

“He’s late again,” she mutters, almost to herself.