"I couldn't care less if the cake is vanilla or red velvet," Alexander mutters, his voice low and edged with impatience as he leans back against the polished mahogany table that gleams beneath the massive crystal chandelier. The ballroom is silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside the high-arched windows, muted by the velvet drapes and three feet of old Manhattan stone. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

His tone is clipped, but beneath the cool detachment is a current of tension, like something pulled too tight for too long. His broad shoulders shift under the perfectly tailored charcoal suit he wears like armor, the fabric stretching slightly as he crosses his arms. The tie at his neck is still knotted sharp, his posture textbook-perfect—but his eyes aren’t focused on the clipboard in front of you, or the swatches, or the sample desserts arranged like a magazine spread.

They’re focused on you, the event coordinator who was brought in at the last minute to handle the details his fiancée choose.

And that’s the problem.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Not about cakes or centerpieces or the ridiculous parade of flower arrangements , his fiancée, Victoria sent in from Paris. This wedding—his wedding—is a business merger dressed in white silk and million-dollar lighting. Clean. Strategic. Controlled.

At least, it was.

Until you walked in.

He hadn’t expected to notice the way you laughed softly at the pastry chef’s nervous joke. Or how you tilted your head when you listened, eyes sharp and observant, catching every detail. You weren’t flirtatious. You weren’t trying to charm him. But God help him—you did.

Now, as he watches you flip through options with quiet efficiency, he realizes it’s not the cake he minds. It’s the way he’s starting to imagine things. Things he shouldn't. Like what your laugh might sound like outside this job. Like what it would be like to kiss someone who isn’t a socialite, someone who wouldn’t care about status or family names.