Page 40 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

I don’t react immediately.

“We had a fitting yesterday,” she continues, flipping the page but not really seeing it. “He didn’t show. Didn’t even call.”

I make a small note, giving her space without feeding it too much.

“We can adjust the rehearsal schedule,” I offer smoothly. “Give you more management over the flow so you’re not depending on him for timing.”

She exhales, grateful for the solution, even if it doesn’t fix what’s underneath.

“Thank you,” she swallows, her voice quieter now.

We keep going.

Details. Final confirmations.

Everything falling into place the way it should.

But her eyes keep drifting toward the door.

Again. And again.

Until I finally pause, setting my pen down.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“He says he trusts me with everything,” she breathes out, a small laugh following. “Which sounds romantic until you realize it means he’s just… not here.”

I don’t rush to fill it.

I’ve learned not to.

There was a time I would’ve. Filled the silence too quickly. Offered something soft, something reassuring, something that made people feel better even when it cost me something I couldn’t name then. I used to think every pause needed saving, every crack needed covering.

It doesn’t. Because not everything needs to be fixed. Some things just need to be heard… and left where they land.

So I let it sit.

I let her words breathe in the space between us without trying to reshape them into something easier.

Instead, I slide the final sheet toward her, circling us back into the moment, back into something we can control.

“We’ll keep everything running on schedule regardless,” I offer professionally. “You won’t feel the gaps.”

She nods, but her attention is already drifting again, her eyes flicking toward the entrance before returning to me like she’s trying to stay present and failing just a little.

“I should show you around,” she declares suddenly, pushing her chair back. “So you can see the space properly. I want you to feel it, not just plan it.”

I nod, closing my folder, rising with her.

“Sure.”

She smooths her dress as she stands, that same effortless elegance settling back over her like it never left.

For a second, she looks exactly like what everyone sees when they look at her, composed, in control, untouched by the small cracks she just let slip.

We step away from the table.

She gestures lightly toward the open floor, already starting to talk again about where the reception tables would sit, how she wants the entrance to feel, the kind of energy she wants the room to carry when people walk in.