I stood in the shadow of the massive crystal chandelier, my fingers adjusting the same arrangement of white roses for the third time in five minutes. They didn’t need adjusting. They were perfect—I’d made sure of that hours ago.
But standing here, pretending to work, gave me something to do with my hands and a reason to stay in the corner where I could see everything without being seen. The grand ballroom stretched before me in all its elegant glory. Soft light cascaded from the chandeliers onto tables draped in pristine white linen.
The marble floor gleamed like glass, reflecting the shimmer of crystal glasses and the glint of expensive jewelry. Everything was perfect, exactly as I’d planned it to be. After thirteen years working at this wedding hall, I knew every detail that separated a good event from an unforgettable one.
But this wasn’t just another event. This was my little brother’s wedding. And the irony of that wasn’t lost on me—I’d spent more than a decade orchestrating perfect days for complete strangers, yet watching Jack’s wedding unfold felt like standing on train tracks, watching the headlight approach, unable to move.
At the center of the room, Grace Miller spun slowly while her bridesmaids fussed over the train of her dress. She was stunning in a way that seemed almost unfair. Her ivory gown fitted perfectly at the waist before flowing around her feet like water.
Her dark hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders, and delicate pearl earrings caught the light each time she turned her head. She looked like she’d stepped out of a bridal magazine—the kind of image that makes other women sigh with envy. I could see it in the faces of my coworkers.
The catering staff whispered “She’s so beautiful” behind their hands. The sound crew kept stealing glances. Even our venue manager, who’d witnessed hundreds of brides over the years and prided himself on being completely unimpressed, had commented, “That one’s something special.”
If you didn’t know her, you’d believe she was perfect in every way.
But I knew her. And I knew better. My name is Elina Johnson, and at thirty-two years old, I’m unmarried—a detail that seems to fascinate everyone who learns it.
“Still single?” they ask, with that particular mixture of pity and judgment that makes you want to throw something. I’ve worked at this wedding hall since I was nineteen, long enough that I know where every electrical outlet is hidden, which floorboards creak, exactly where the carpet always snags women’s heels, and which caterers can be trusted during a crisis. This place has become my second home.
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