Page 109 of The Wrong Groom

The camera guy from Thorne Enterprises lowers the lens, shooting me a thumbs up. “We’ll start rolling again when the doors open. Just wanted to get a few shots of your setup.”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. I don’t often get involved in the camera crew’s work. They just do their thing. For the most part, I ignore the camera altogether.

“Oh, and just so you know,” says the cameraman, “the video you released yesterday, about the last minute renovations⁠—”

“What about it?”

“It’s going viral,” he says. “It’s been shared across a couple of different platforms so far. It’s big on Instagram right now.”

My eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”

“Yup.” He hefts his camera onto his shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

He paces back toward the rest of the crew, leaving me to absorb this new information on my own. It’s exciting, of course, but I also feel a little flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach. I never saw myself being in the public eye like this. It’s an unexpected pressure. Still, it feels good to be noticed because of a message I care about.

Plus, this will be good for everyone involved. Fashion For All, FlashUp, Gabriel. After the faith he put in me, the support he’s given me, I want to make sure I don’t let him down.

I turn toward the door, to the line of people waiting for us to open. The line stretches farther than I expected, a mix of faces, young, old, diverse, and vibrant.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Let’s do this.”

The soft opening is a success beyond anything I could’ve imagined. From the moment the doors open, the space comes alive. The magic I’ve been hoping for, meticulously trying to cultivate, is palpable in the air.

Our guests move between the designers, admiring the pieces on display and taking the time to sketch out their own ideas at the provided drawing stations. I greet people nonstop, shaking hands and answering questions about the project.

A group of four kids, no older than high school age, hover near one of the design stations. They’re unsure at first, hesitating to touch the tools and fabrics laid out for them, but after a bit of encouragement from a volunteer, they dive in. Soon, the four of them are chattering animatedly, pinning swatches of fabric to a bare mannequin.

I smile to myself as I watch them. These are the people I wanted to reach with this project. These kids may not see themselves this way, may have never gotten the chance to think of themselves this way, but when I look at them, I know I’m looking at four artists.

The soft opening lasts around two hours, and when it’s done, I’m buzzing with excitement and pride. After the guests file out, I thank the volunteers and the camera crew, but there’s really only one person I want to see. The person who made this all possible.

It’s around four, so I know he’ll still be at the office, wrapping up his workday. I call one of his drivers to give me a ride downtown. As Los Angeles slides past the car’s windows, I lean against the glass, smiling absently as the soft opening replays in my head.

The car pulls up in front of the Thorne Enterprises building. The driver opens the door for me, and I thank him before stepping out.

The polished lobby is tranquil, its quiet broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the click of my heels on the polished floor. The receptionist greets me with a warm smile.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thorne,” she says. “Are you here to see Mr. Thorne?”

I nod, still not entirely used to the title. “Yes. Is he in?”

“He is,” she replies. “Would you like me to call up and let him know you’re here?”

“No,” I say, grinning. “I’ll surprise him.”

Her smile widens, and she nods, gesturing over to the sleek, steel doors of the elevators.

The ride up is quiet aside from the soft hum of the elevator. At this hour, nobody’s coming or going. Everyone in the building is working, closing out the day. I take a deep breath, glancing at my reflection in the mirror on the elevator’s back wall. There’s a faint flush on my cheeks, a leftover glow from the success of the soft opening. I look confident. Happy. It’s a look I’m not used to seeing on my own face.

When the elevator doors slide open, the top floor is calm, the usual hum of activity subdued in the late afternoon. Even Gabriel’s secretary isn’t at her desk, which comes as a slight relief. I don’t need her judgmental stare to fracture my good mood.

I make my way to his office door. It’s slightly ajar. I push it open, and when I step inside, my heart drops into my stomach.

Gabriel’s secretary is standing next to him, leaning over the arm of his desk chair. She’s too close for comfort, her hand resting on the back of the chair, just inches from his shoulder. Her body is angled toward him, her posture possessive, intimate.

The sight immediately makes something inside me twist.

I freeze in place, my hand still on the door. I want to flee. No, I want to dissolve, to melt into a puddle and seep into the threads of the artisanal rug that adorns the wooden floor of Gabriel’s office suite.