By the time the first crystal flute slipped from my tray, I’d already been on my feet for ten hours.
It spun, a slow‑motion arc of doom, catching the chandelier light as if it were proud of its own destruction. I lunged, hip clipped a marble pedestal, and the whole silver tray tilted. Suddenly it wasn’t one flute falling—it was twelve. A waterfall of vintage champagne cascaded down like liquid gold and landed squarely on the back of a very expensive, very tailored black suit.
The suit’s owner went still.
My stomach dropped. “No, no, no—”
The orchestra swelled with strings, a romantic crescendo that felt like a cruel joke as the champagne splashed across broad shoulders and spread in a gleaming stain. Gasps fluttered around us from the glittering sea of guests. I’d officially become the horror story every cater‑waitress tells herself at three in the morning.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted, grabbing for the linen tucked at my waistband. My fingers shook as I reached toward the ruined jacket. “I—there was a kid, and someone stepped back, and—”
The man turned.
Dark hair, controlled to the point of precision, a jaw cut in clean lines, blue eyes like winter glass—and now, champagne droplets clinging to his lashes. He was stupidly handsome in that cold, dangerous way that made you think of cliffs and fast cars and stock portfolios. I knew that face. Everyone did.
Aiden Wallace. Billionaire. Groom.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, catching my wrist before the napkin made contact.
His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful. My pulse tripped over itself anyway, because if I’d made a list of people I could not afford to soak in alcohol tonight, Aiden Wallace would’ve been number one, circled, underlined, surrounded by skulls.
“I—your suit—” I stammered.
“It’s fine.” His voice was smooth, practiced neutral. The kind of voice built for boardrooms and bad news. His eyes flicked down, taking in my cheap black flats, the faint coffee stain on my cuff that I’d hoped no one noticed, the logo of the catering company embroidered on my too‑big vest.
He was cataloging me. I had the impression he cataloged everything.
“We’ll take care of the charges,” I rushed on. “The dry cleaning. Replacement. Whatever. This is all my fault, I’ll—”
“Miss…” He glanced at my name tag. “Brooks.” The corner of his mouth moved like he’d tasted something unexpected. “It was an accident.”
The words were right, but the way he said them sounded like they’d been trained into him along with which fork to use. Polite. Distant. Irritated underneath.
“They’ll fire me,” I whispered, throat tight.
His gaze sharpened. For the first time there was a glimmer of something unpolished—annoyance, maybe, or concern. “Over champagne?”
“Over the tux West Side Gossip will gleefully zoom in on in their slideshow of ‘Wedding of the Year’ photos,” I said before my tongue could check in with my brain. “Yes. Definitely over champagne.”
His jaw twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
A string of pearls brushed my arm as someone pushed past. “Aiden, darling, they’re ready to bring you to the altar,” a woman’s clipped voice announced. Perfume clouded the air—jasmine and judgment.
Helena Wallace. The bridegroom’s mother. I didn’t have to see her face to know the type: high cheekbones, sharper eyes, the brittle brightness of someone who’d turned their life into a curated spread in a magazine.
