Romance Weekly - Short Stories of Love, Erotic and Paranormal Thrillers
Sep 27, 2026 · 18 min · 12 segments
**Fated mates. Werewolf pack. Human heroine. Forced proximity. Slow burn.** Sadie plans weddings for a living and believes in exactly none of them, which makes her the ideal person to stage the…
I have planned 216 weddings, and I believe in exactly none of them.
That is not bitterness.
That is expertise.
When you are the person who books the dove wrangler, times the spontaneous first-look tears to the golden hour, and keeps the emergency sewing kit and the emergency Xanax in the same monogrammed bag, you stop believing in destiny the way a magician stops believing in magic.
I make the magic, I know where the wires run.
216 couples have gazed into each other's eyes at an altar I dressed and told the crowd, the universe brought them together, and I have stood just off camera thinking, no, a woman named Brittany brought you together at a kickball league, and I brought the peonies, and the universe had the night off.
So when the Thorne wedding came across my desk with a budget that made my business partner Cass make a noise I had previously only heard from a kettle, I did what I always do.
I did not believe in it, and I planned it flawlessly anyway.
That is the job.
Faith is optional.
Logistics are not.
The thorns were old money, the kind of old that predates the money, out on a wooded estate two hours north where the trees have opinions and the cell service does not exist.
Enormous family.
Unusually good bone structure across the board, which I noted the way you note weather, professionally and without feelings.
They wanted a small ceremony, which at their income meant 300 people, and they wanted it at the exact minute of moonrise, which they were very specific about, which I filed under Rich People Astrology and moved on.
The groom was named Cal.
The bride was named Odette.
I had met neither of them, because I had dealt entirely with the mother, Lenora, a silver-haired woman who ran our planning meetings, the way a general runs a war she has already won.
I should have known something was off.
In my defence, everything about rich weddings is off, so a little extra off does not register.
The vendors they insisted on were strange.
No photographer, which never happens, and a florist who only worked in wolfsbane and moonflower, which I assumed was a theme.
The rehearsal dinner menu was, and I am quoting the card, very rare.
The officiant was a hundred and nine years old, and referred to the ceremony, twice, as the joining.
And once, when he thought I could not hear, as the hunt.
I have planned 216 weddings, and I believe in exactly none of them.
That is not bitterness.
That is expertise.
When you are the person who books the dove wrangler, times the spontaneous first-look tears to the golden hour, and keeps the emergency sewing kit and the emergency Xanax in the same monogrammed bag, you stop believing in destiny the way a magician stops believing in magic.
I make the magic, I know where the wires run.
216 couples have gazed into each other's eyes at an altar I dressed and told the crowd, the universe brought them together, and I have stood just off camera thinking, no, a woman named Brittany brought you together at a kickball league, and I brought the peonies, and the universe had the night off.
So when the Thorne wedding came across my desk with a budget that made my business partner Cass make a noise I had previously only heard from a kettle, I did what I always do.
I did not believe in it, and I planned it flawlessly anyway.
That is the job.
Faith is optional.
Logistics are not.
The thorns were old money, the kind of old that predates the money, out on a wooded estate two hours north where the trees have opinions and the cell service does not exist.
Enormous family.
Unusually good bone structure across the board, which I noted the way you note weather, professionally and without feelings.
They wanted a small ceremony, which at their income meant 300 people, and they wanted it at the exact minute of moonrise, which they were very specific about, which I filed under Rich People Astrology and moved on.
The groom was named Cal.
The bride was named Odette.
I had met neither of them, because I had dealt entirely with the mother, Lenora, a silver-haired woman who ran our planning meetings, the way a general runs a war she has already won.
I should have known something was off.
In my defence, everything about rich weddings is off, so a little extra off does not register.
The vendors they insisted on were strange.
No photographer, which never happens, and a florist who only worked in wolfsbane and moonflower, which I assumed was a theme.
The rehearsal dinner menu was, and I am quoting the card, very rare.
The officiant was a hundred and nine years old, and referred to the ceremony, twice, as the joining.
And once, when he thought I could not hear, as the hunt.
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