The Roses Wilted at Dusk Chapter 01

At three in the afternoon, I was waiting at the wedding planning office for a couple preparing to plan their wedding.

The groom arrived first.

When he looked up and saw me behind the desk, his face went pale for half a second.

It was my boyfriend, Dashiell Lockwood.

The woman behind him looped her arm through his and smiled sweetly.

“Dashiell wants to give me the wedding of my dreams.”

I picked up the booking ledger.

“Wedding date?”

He paused for two seconds, then gave a date.

It was the fourth anniversary of our relationship.

“Theme color?”

“White.”

“Bouquet?”

“White roses.”

I wrote each answer down carefully.

Every single one was my favorite.

When we finished, he hesitated.

“Audra Ellison…”

I closed the book.

“Mr. Lockwood, the deposit is five thousand dollars.”

After seeing them out, my assistant brought me a glass of lemonade.

“Audra, are you really okay taking this job?”

I smiled.

“It’s just work.”

I had planned more than two hundred weddings.

I never thought the last one I handled myself would be the one where I was replaced as the bride.

…

After they left, only the lemonade remained in the conference room.

I pulled the guest list from the folder and turned to the blank line on the last page.

The tip of my pen hovered for two seconds.

Audra Ellison.

In the notes column, I wrote three words, then crossed one out.

Only this remained:

ex-girlfriend.

The ink bled into a small patch, leaving a dark inkblot where I had let the pen linger.

I locked the booking ledger in the drawer and slipped the key back into my pocket.

Marlowe Hayes stood in the doorway, holding the iced latte she never seemed to finish.

“Audra, can we really not drop this job? We can make up a reason. Say we’re fully booked.”

I pointed to the transfer agreement on the table.

“The new owner takes over on the first of next month. The final wedding payment is the team’s last income.”

“Your salary, Griffin’s salary, the venue deposit, vendor settlements. They’re all tied to this job.”

Marlowe bit her straw and said nothing.

“And the contract is signed. The penalty for breach is higher than the final payment.”

She muttered something, probably cursing Dashiell Lockwood for being less than human.

I did not respond. I started organizing the client request form.

[Wedding date: our fourth anniversary.]

[Theme color: white.]

[Bouquet: white roses.]

[Dessert table: lemon tarts.]

[Processional: Debussy’s Clair de Lune.]

As I looked down the list item by item, the lemonade in my stomach turned sour.

All of it was mine.

Every word from my old wedding scrapbook.

Three years ago, on Christmas Eve, I had tucked that book into the pocket of his coat and told him it was my Christmas wish list.

He said he would read it when he was done being busy.

Then he stayed busy for three years.

I thought he had never read it.

He had only used it on someone else.

Footsteps sounded at the door.

I looked up. Dashiell Lockwood stood outside the glass door, his hand not yet pushing it open.

His tie was loosened halfway. He must have sat in the car for a long time before coming back.

“Audra Ellison.”

I stood, took a receipt from beside the printer, and handed it to him.

“Mr. Lockwood, your deposit receipt. The invoice will be emailed to you tomorrow.”

He did not take it.

“I want to explain. This wedding isn’t my…”

“Mr. Lockwood,” I placed the receipt on the front desk, “company policy requires us to maintain strictly professional boundaries with our clients.”

His fingers clenched around the edge of the receipt.

“Can you stop calling me Mr. Lockwood?”

“That is the name on the contract.”

He looked at me. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

When he turned to leave, his gaze swept across the corner of my desk.

A strip of kraft paper cover showed from the old wedding scrapbook, with a pressed white rose pasted on it.

His footsteps stopped, and he reached for it.

I pressed a hand over the book and closed the drawer softly.

“An old plan. It doesn’t fit Mr. Lockwood’s wedding.”

His hand hung in the air.

When he withdrew it, his knuckles were white.

The glass door closed behind him. I watched him stand in the hallway for a long time before walking toward the elevator.

Marlowe poked her head out from the break room.

“Boss, your hand is shaking.”

I looked down.

The hand holding the book had dug fingernails into my palm.

When I loosened my grip, deep half-moon indentations remained in my palm.

“Send tomorrow’s dress fitting schedule to Ms. Calder for me.”

“…Okay.”

I opened the old wedding scrapbook to the final page.

Written there was:

[If he still hasn’t come in the fourth year, I’ll stop waiting.]

I had written that last year.

This year was already the fourth.

He had indeed come.

With someone else.