Chapter 13: The Wedding Planner's Burden
The ache was a low, persistent throb. A phantom fullness that lingered for days, a secret souvenir. Mina shifted in her desk chair, the sleek leather creaking, and winced. The diamond on her left hand caught the sterile office light, throwing a prism across a spreadsheet. A constant, glittering wink. A reminder of the promise and the subsequent, brutal reality.
Her desk, usually a monument to controlled chaos, was now a disaster zone of a different kind. It looked like a paper bomb had detonated. Fabric swatches in shades of charcoal, ivory, and a stark, venomous black were piled like fallen leaves. Catering menus featuring canapés with unpronounceable names slid under florists’ portfolios bursting with images of dark, dramatic blooms. A seating chart template was a maze of angry red lines and question marks.
Her phone buzzed, skittering across a sample of duchess satin. Unknown Number. Probably another photographer with a “vision.” She let it go to voicemail.
The door to her office clicked open. Victor didn’t knock. He leaned against the frame, holding two cardboard cups, his expression one of pure, unadulterated amusement.
“You look,” he said, enunciating each word, “like a woman who’s been asked to build a spaceship out of matchsticks. Blindfolded.”
Mina slumped back, running her hands through her hair. The ring snagged on a strand. “It’s not a spaceship. It’s a wedding. Apparently, that’s worse.”
Victor pushed off the door and walked in, setting a coffee in front of her. He glanced at the carnage. “Silas gave you the reins, huh? That’s either a sign of profound trust or a deeply sadistic experiment. I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“He said he wants my vision,” she muttered, pulling the lid off the coffee. It was exactly how she liked it. Black, one sugar. Victor remembered. “His only parameters were ‘winter,’ ‘black orchids,’ and ‘a string quartet that doesn’t play Pachelbel’s fucking Canon.’”
Victor let out a low whistle, perching on the edge of her desk. He picked up a swatch of black velvet, rubbing it between his fingers. “Of course. Subtle. Understated. Very ‘blend into the background.’”
“The problem,” Mina said, gesturing at her laptop screen, “is that ‘winter’ in this city means venues are booked two years out. The only place with an opening is The Gilded Horn, and it looks like a mobster’s wedding cake from 1987. Silas would burn it down.”
“So get a different date.”
“He wants winter.”
“Mina,” Victor said, his tone dropping its usual sarcasm for a note of genuine concern. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes that could double as luggage. When was the last time you ate something that didn’t come in a cardboard sleeve?”
She ignored him, clicking through the venue website. “I hired an assistant. Chloe. She’s… enthusiastic. She’s on a coffee run for the third time today. I think she’s avoiding the spreadsheet.”
“Smart kid.” Victor reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a protein bar onto the keyboard. “Eat. Before you pass out and I have to explain to your terrifying fiancé that I let his future wife perish under a pile of linen samples.”
The word ‘fiancé’ still sent a strange, electric jolt through her system. She glanced at the ring again, then back at Victor. His gaze was steady, knowing. He’d seen the shift in her, the new weight she carried.
She tore open the bar and took a bite. It tasted like sawdust and chocolate. “He won’t budge on the season. It has to be winter.”
“Why?”
She chewed, thinking. The real reason hovered in the space between her ribs. Winter was stark. It was bare trees and hard ground. It was a season of stripping down, of survival. It was the season he’d first truly broken her, in that bathroom with the scissors. It was their season. She couldn’t explain that to Victor. “He just does.”
Victor studied her face for a long moment, then sighed. He reached down to a leather satchel by his feet and pulled out a thick, black binder. He slapped it onto the desk with a definitive thud.
“‘Emergency Wedding Kit,’” he said, reading the label he’d handwritten in silver Sharpie. “My sister got married last year. It was a circus. I observed, I took notes, I stole all the good contacts. Consider it a hostile takeover of your disaster.”
Mina stared at the binder, then at him. A lump, unexpected and fierce, formed in her throat. “Victor…”
“Don’t get sentimental. You’ll vomit up that protein bar.” He flipped the binder open. The inside was meticulously organized. Tabbed sections: Venues (People Who Actually Answer Emails), Caterers (Who Understand Edible Food), Florists (Not Funeral Directors).
“First,” Victor said, pulling out a sheet from the venue section. “We fire The Gilded Horn. Conceptually. We never speak of it again.” He tore the printout in half with a satisfying rip. “Second.” He slid a different sheet toward her. “The Steel Glass Conservatory. It’s a converted industrial greenhouse on the north side. All black iron and glass. In winter, with the gardens dead outside, it’ll look like a jewel box in the middle of a skeletal forest. They have a December cancellation. Twenty-seventh.”
Mina looked at the photo. It was perfect. All sharp lines and misted glass, bleak and beautiful. Exactly what she didn’t know she was looking for. “How did you…?”
“I pay attention. Also, the event coordinator owes me a favor after a particularly creative tax restructuring.” He tapped the page. “It’s available because it’s two days after Christmas. Everyone thinks that’s a bad date. Too close to the holiday, family travel, blah blah. But for you? It’s perfect. The city is empty. Quiet. It’ll feel like you’re getting married in your own private, frozen world.”
The rightness of it settled over her, quieting the frantic buzz in her head. “Yes.”
“Good. Call them now, before I lose my nerve and use the favor for myself.” He pushed her desk phone toward her.
She made the call. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She secured the hold, quoted Silas’s name for the deposit—a magic spell that made bureaucratic hurdles vanish—and hung up.
One massive, crushing weight lifted.
“Okay,” Victor said, a grin spreading across his face. “Step one: secure the murder-y greenhouse. Check.” He flipped to the caterer section. “Now. Food. Silas strikes me as a ‘filet mignon and whiskey’ traditionalist. You strike me as a ‘spicy tuna tower and champagne’ revolutionary. This is where the first marital fight will originate. We must strategize.”
For the next hour, they worked. Really worked. Victor’s sarcasm was a scalpel, cutting through vendor bullshit. He mocked overly complicated menus, translated florist jargon into plain English (“‘Structural drama’ means they’re going to use sticks, Mina. They’re charging you four thousand dollars for sticks.”), and vetoed three separate string quartets for having “the artistic energy of a damp napkin.”
Mina felt her shoulders unhunch. The mountain of paper began to form into a semblance of order. Chloe returned with more coffee, took one look at Victor holding a fabric swatch up to the light and declaring it “the color of regret,” and quietly backed out again.
“You need to talk to him,” Victor said later, his voice casual as he compared two nearly identical photographs of black calla lilies.
“I talk to him every day.”
“No. You need to tell him you need a weekend. A breath. This,” he gestured at the now-organized but still overwhelming binder, “is a second full-time job. You’re doing the merger paperwork for your own life. It’s meta. And stupid. Tell him you need forty-eight hours where no one says the word ‘canapé’ or ‘frosted glass aisle runner.’”
Mina snorted. “He’ll say no.”
“Probably. But you’ll have said it. You’ll have put the flag in the ground. It matters.” Victor looked at her, his eyes serious. “That ring gives you power, too. Not just to him. To the world. Use it.”
The truth of it resonated. The ring was a claim on her, but it was also her claim on him. A public declaration that gave her a new kind of leverage, a new voice.
Her personal phone buzzed. A text from Silas. Three words.
Status report, darling.
She looked at the words, then at the binder, then at Victor. She picked up her phone.
Venue secured. The Steel Glass Conservatory. December 27th. Catering shortlist tomorrow. Tell me no now if you hate it.
The three dots appeared immediately. Then his reply.
It’s perfect. Knew you would. Home by eight. I have a taste for you.
Heat flared low in her belly, cutting through the exhaustion. The phantom ache deepened.
Victor, watching her face, raised an eyebrow. “And that’s my cue to exit before you get that particular look. It’s bad for my professional detachment.” He stood, snapping the binder shut. “Keep that. My work here is done. For now.”
“Victor,” she said, stopping him at the door. “Thank you. Seriously.”
He gave her a small, genuine smile. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“At this wintery, black-orchid, stick-filled spectacle,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “You dance to something that isn’t a string quartet. Something with a beat. For me.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
The office felt quieter, larger. The chaos had been corralled into a plan. She looked at the ring on her finger, the diamond hard and bright. She thought of Silas’s text. I have a taste for you.
A slow, defiant smile touched her lips. She opened her laptop, opened a new browser tab, and typed in a search. Her fingers flew over the keys, a new, secret energy driving her.
She found what she was looking for. A band. Not a quartet. A five-piece outfit that played a mix of smoky jazz and deep, rhythmic blues. She bookmarked the page.
Power, Victor had said.
She picked up her phone and typed a response to Silas, her heart pounding a steady, anticipatory rhythm against her ribs.
Eight is fine. I’ll be ready. But I need something first. A weekend. Just us. No city, no wedding talk. Before this all swallows me whole. Say yes.
He didn’t answer her text.
The three dots never appeared. The silence from his phone was a vacuum, swallowing her request whole. She waited through the evening, the silence thickening with each passing minute. By seven-thirty, a different tension had replaced her earlier defiance—a sharp, familiar ache of anticipation low in her belly.
She drew a bath. The water was scalding, just shy of painful. She lit a dozen candles, their light flickering against the black marble, softening the room's hard edges. She sank into the heat, letting it sear the day’s stress from her muscles, the steam carrying the scent of sandalwood. She closed her eyes, the diamond-heavy hand resting on the cold porcelain edge.
The loft door opened at eight-fifteen. His footsteps were distinct, deliberate on the concrete floor. They moved through the living space, paused, then came toward the bathroom. The door opened without a knock.
Silas stood there, still in his suit jacket, his tie loose. The storm in his eyes took inventory of the scene: the candles, the steam, her body submerged and gleaming in the wavering light. His gaze was a physical touch, scraping over her wet shoulders, the floating ends of her honey-blonde hair, the subtle shift of her breasts beneath the water’s surface.
“You look hungry,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the tiled room. She didn’t open her eyes.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He pulled his tie off completely. “Your text was a request wrapped in a threat. I found it… compelling.”
He knelt by the tub. His fingers, still cool from the outside air, traced the line of her jaw. “This weekend you mentioned. You’re stressed.”
It wasn’t a question. She opened her eyes then. His face was close, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. “It’s a lot. The planning. The decisions. It feels like performing our relationship for an audience.”
“It is a performance.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “The only one that matters is me. And I’m already convinced.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Are the crows feet and worry lines closing in, darling? I can’t have my fiancée looking weathered before I’ve even made her my wife.”
His joke was dark, a razor’s edge of truth. She laughed, a short, breathy sound. “Would you love me less with wrinkles?”
“I’d love every one of them.” His answer was immediate, absolute. “Because I’d have put them there. Every sigh, every scream, every clenched-teeth orgasm. They’d all be mine.” He dipped his hand into the water, his palm cupping her knee, sliding slowly up her thigh. “But that’s a future project. For now, you asked for a weekend.”
Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed the apex of her thighs. “And?”
“And I’m considering it.” His fingers parted her, finding her clit already hard and eager. He rubbed slow, firm circles. “Tell me what you’d do with a weekend. No city. No wedding talk.”
She gasped, her hips lifting into his touch. “Sleep. Real sleep. Walk somewhere without a destination. Breathe air that doesn’t smell like exhaust and… and florist foam.”
“Boring.” He increased the pressure, his eyes locked on hers. “Try again.”
“Fuck,” she moaned, her head falling back. “I’d want you to fuck me somewhere where the walls aren’t familiar. I’d want to wake up and not know what room I’m in, just that you’re there.”
A dark satisfaction bloomed in his eyes. “Better.” He withdrew his hand suddenly, leaving her throbbing. “Out. Now.”
He stood, grabbing a large towel. She rose, water sluicing off her body, and stepped into the towel he held open. He wrapped her tightly, rubbing her arms, but his touch was no longer gentle. It was proprietary, brisk. He led her, damp and trailing steam, to the bedroom.
He pushed her onto the bed, onto her back. He stripped off his remaining clothes, his cock already fully hard, jutting thick and angry from his body. He didn’t join her. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hand wrapping around his shaft, giving himself two slow, rough pumps.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice gravel.
She did, letting the towel fall away. The cool air kissed her wet skin, pebbling her nipples. Her arousal was a slick, hot ache between her legs.
“Wider. Show me what you’re asking for.”
She hooked her knees over her elbows, opening herself completely to his gaze, a vulgar and vulnerable display. The candlelight from the bathroom spilled in, illuminating the glistening proof of her need.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he growled. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her splayed thighs. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t touch her anywhere else. He positioned the broad head of his cock at her entrance and looked into her eyes. “You can have your weekend. On one condition.”
“Anything.” The word was a whisper.
“You come untouched. You come just from my cock filling you up. You don’t touch your clit. You don’t squeeze your tits. You just take it. You let me fuck the tension right out of you until you scream from nothing but the feeling of being split open on me. Do you understand?”
The challenge was insane. Her body was already wound tight, a live wire. “I understand.”
He drove into her.
The penetration was total, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the root. She cried out, her back arching off the mattress. He was so deep she felt him in her throat. He held there, letting her body flutter and clench around the sudden, exquisite invasion.
“That’s it,” he murmured, watching her face contort. “Feel that stretch. That’s your reward. That’s your fucking weekend.”
He began to move. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each thrust a deliberate, full-body possession. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head, his eyes burning into hers. The only sounds were the slick slap of their bodies meeting, their ragged breaths, the quiet creak of the bed.
It was an agony of restraint. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her knuckles white. Every nerve screamed for contact, for friction on her clit, but she kept her arms pinned by her head, obeying. The pleasure built from a different place, a deep, internal friction that coiled tighter with every impact of his hips against hers. It was a slow, maddening burn.
“Look at you,” he grunted, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. “My prim little planner. My wife. Soaking my cock with that desperate cunt. You’re leaking all over the sheets.”
His filthy words pushed her closer. She was a tight, sweating bowstring, trembling with the effort of holding still.
“You want to come, don’t you?” he panted, his rhythm becoming erratic, harder. “I can feel your pussy trying to milk me. It’s pulsing. Begging.”
She could only nod, a frantic motion. Her vision was starting to blur at the edges. The coil was a white-hot knot in her core, tightening with every brutal, perfect stroke.
“Then come.” It was a guttural command. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Show me what you really need.”
It was the permission, the raw ownership in his voice, that broke her. The orgasm detonated, seismic and blinding, tearing through her with a force that ripped a raw, shattered scream from her lungs. Her body convulsed, clamping around him in violent, rhythmic spasms that had nothing to do with her own touch and everything to do with the devastating fullness of him.
Her climax triggered his. With a roar, he hammered into her twice more before slamming deep and holding, his body locking as he emptied himself in hot, endless pulses inside her. He collapsed atop her, his weight driving his still-twitching cock even deeper, prolonging the aftershocks for both of them.
They lay there, a mess of sweat and spent desire, for a long time. His face was buried in her neck, his breathing harsh in her ear. Gradually, it evened out. He shifted, slipping out of her, and rolled to his side, pulling her against him.
He kissed her shoulder, her damp hair. His hand found hers on the mattress, his fingers interlacing with hers, the cool metal of the ring pressed between their palms.
“The cabin up north,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. “We’ll leave Friday. There’s a lake. It’ll be frozen. And the walls are log. You won’t recognize the sound of your own screams.”
He said it like a promise. Like a gift.
She smiled into the dark, the last tremors of her climax still echoing in her bones. The weekend was no longer an escape. It was simply another form of possession. And she craved it.