I Planned My Ex Boyfriend’s Wedding to Another Woman

The planning call was scheduled for forty minutes. It ran sixty-three.

I had my notes open, my timeline pulled up, my coffee going cold beside my laptop. Sawyer was efficient as always—yes to the ivory napkin fold, no to the eucalyptus garland, move the cocktail hour fifteen minutes earlier to catch the light. She moved through decisions the way she moved through everything: fast, clean, no sentiment.

Then Dominic spoke.

"The processional music." His voice came through the speaker a half-beat too careful. "The Pachelbel. I don't think it fits."

I kept my pen moving. "What were you thinking instead, Mr. Grant?"

"Something less—" A pause. "Less traditional. Can you pull some alternatives?"

"Of course. I'll send three options by end of day."

Sawyer said nothing. I heard her pen tap once against something hard.

Then, five minutes later: "The rehearsal schedule. Thursday at four feels rushed."

"The venue books out Friday evening," I said. "Thursday at four is the window we have."

"What if we started at two? That would give more time to—"

"Dominic." Sawyer's voice, flat and quiet. "Four works."

He went silent. But not for long.

By the time he suggested I personally walk the vineyard grounds with him to "assess the lighting situation," I had already written *follow up: processional options* and *confirm Thursday 4pm* in my notes without a single change in my breathing.

"I can arrange a walkthrough with you and Ms. Robinson and the venue manager," I said. "I'll send the calendar invite tonight."

A beat.

"Right," he said. "That works."

After the call ended, I sat for a moment in the quiet of my office. Outside the glass partition, Levi was on the phone, laughing at something, spinning a pen between his fingers. He caught my eye through the glass and raised an eyebrow. *You good?*

I gave him a small nod and went back to my screen.

---

The vineyard sat forty minutes outside the city, all rolling hills and old wood and the smell of soil and crushed grapes baked into the air. The venue manager, a brisk woman named Dana, led Sawyer ahead toward the barn to review the reception layout. Dominic fell behind.

I knew it before it happened. I kept walking anyway.

"Dana, I'll catch up in just a moment," he said. "I want to check the cellar entrance for the cocktail flow."

Dana didn't miss a beat. Sawyer glanced back once—just once—then kept moving.

I stopped near the stone archway at the cellar door and made a note on my clipboard. Gave him nothing.

He stepped close. Too close. I could feel the heat off him before he even spoke.

"Eliana." His voice broke on the second syllable. "Please. Just—look at me. Really look at me."

The air between us was cool and smelled like old wood and fermented earth. I looked down at my clipboard.

"Mr. Grant, the string quartet needs your approval on the processional piece." I clicked my pen. "Shall I walk you back to your fiancée?"

I turned and walked before he could answer.

Levi was across the courtyard, tablet in hand, talking to one of the catering reps. He looked up as I crossed toward him. Didn't say a word. Just fell into step beside me, matching my pace exactly, his shoulder a steady presence at the edge of my peripheral vision.

We walked the rest of the venue together. He handed me a water bottle at some point. I drank it without stopping.

---

That night, in the penthouse, Sawyer set down her fork.

Dominic looked up.

She took her time. Touched the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Set it back in her lap.

"She's the girl from before, isn't she?" Her voice was the same temperature as the room. "The charity case."

The muscle in his jaw jumped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Brooklyn. Foster care overlap." She reached for her wine. "She's quite good at her job. I can see why Clara Montgomery keeps her."

"Sawyer—"

"You said her name four times on that call today." She swirled the glass once, watching the red coat the sides. "I counted."

He said nothing. That was its own answer.

She smiled. It didn't reach anything above her mouth. "The Pachelbel is fine," she said. "Tell her to keep it."

She picked up her fork again. Under the table, her other hand was already moving, thumb scrolling, composing a message to Vance Sterling in three short sentences. She didn't need to look at the screen to do it. She'd been drafting it in her head since the call ended.

The candles burned low between them. Dominic stared at his plate and didn't eat another bite.

Sawyer finished her wine and ordered a second glass.