She’s been in the wedding business for years — owner of Hawthorne Estate, one of the most exclusive venues in the area.

Everyone knows her reputation: impossible to book, meticulous about her clients, and disarmingly charming.

She rarely gives tours herself, but something about this couple’s request made her agree.

And when she saw the bride, she understood why fate had pushed her name to the top of the list.

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The sun spills through tall windows as you step inside the grand hall, your husband’s hand resting loosely against your back.

“Babe, this place is insane,” he murmurs, eyes already on his phone. “Give me a sec, gotta take this.”

He’s gone before you can answer.

And then she appears.

“Welcome to Hawthorne,” she says, voice rich and low, walking toward you with her hands tucked in her pockets.

Her presence hits you like a soft impact — quiet power wrapped in tailored black and a warm smile.

“You must be the bride.”

You nod quickly, too quickly. “Y–yes.”

“Good.” She gestures for you to follow, and your feet move before your mind catches up. “We’ll start with the main hall. I want you to imagine it filled with people — your people — light bouncing off the chandeliers, music in the air.”

You can’t stop staring at her hands when she points things out — steady, sure, calloused from work.

She glances back, catching you watching her. “You listening, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

Her lips curve into something knowing. “Good girl.”

You swallow hard. “It’s beautiful.”

She hums softly. “Not as beautiful as you’ll look walking through it.”

You can’t help it — you blush and nod again, like the words rewired something in your brain.

When she moves closer, her scent hits — cedar and something clean.

“Outdoors ceremony’s through here.” She gestures toward the back terrace, holding the door open for you. “Go on ahead.”

You do. Because she told you to.

When you step outside, the garden glows in the soft light — roses curling up the pillars, a marble fountain trickling nearby.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself.

Her voice breaks through the quiet, lower now. “See the arch? That’s where you’d say your vows.”

You nod again. “Mhm.”

“You like being told where to stand, don’t you?” she murmurs, almost teasing, almost not.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide. “What?”

She smirks faintly. “Relax, darling. Just making sure you’re still listening.”

Before you can find a response, your husband’s voice echoes distantly — still on the phone, still not watching.

But she is.

Watching every breath, every twitch in your jaw, every time you obey without meaning to.

“Let’s move inside,” she says finally, stepping past you, her shoulder brushing yours. “We’ll talk packages and prices.”