The Vampire King’s Wedding Planner

Evelyn's POV

The florist looked seconds away from a panic attack.

“I know you’re going to tell me not to freak out,” he said, clutching his tablet like it might save him, “but… maybe freak out a little.”

I didn’t stop walking.

“If the bride’s dress caught fire, tell me now.”

“No.”

“The groom disappeared?”

“No.”

“The cake collapsed?”

“…No.”

I pushed through the ballroom doors and took in the room in one sweep. Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across tables dressed in ivory silk. Hundreds of white orchids floated above the guests like clouds. Every wineglass sat exactly where it belonged. Every chair lined up with military precision.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Except for the empty floral arch waiting at the end of the aisle.

I looked back at him. “The roses.”

He winced. “The shipment never came.”

For exactly one second, I allowed myself the luxury of imagining tomorrow’s headline.

Celebrity wedding planner ruined by missing flowers.

Then I checked my watch.

Forty-three minutes until the ceremony.

Plenty of time.

“Call every florist in Manhattan.”

“We already—”

“Then Brooklyn.”

“They’re sold out.”

“Queens.”

“They can’t deliver.”

“The Bronx.”

“They laughed.”

I smiled. “Good. That means we’re done asking.”

He frowned. “What?”

“We’re buying.”

Twenty-five minutes later, my assistant, Nora, burst through the hotel entrance with two bellmen pushing carts overflowing with white garden roses.

“They cleaned out three flower markets and one funeral supplier,” she announced, breathless. “Also, one elderly woman threatened to hit me with her cane.”

“Did you deserve it?”

“A little.”

I took a stem from one of the buckets, trimmed it with the floral shears clipped to my belt, and tucked it into the arch.

Not identical.

Better.

The garden roses had softer petals than the imported Ecuadorian blooms we’d originally ordered. Less formal. More alive.

By the time the last blossom was wired into place, no one in the ballroom knew there had ever been a problem.

That was the point.

People remembered beautiful weddings.

Not the disasters that almost happened.

The bride reached for my hands just before the music started.

“I can’t do this.”

“You already are.”

She laughed, though tears threatened to undo the careful work of her makeup artist.

“What if I trip?”

“I’ll pretend it was part of the choreography.”

“What if I cry?”

“I’ll hand you a tissue before anyone notices.”

“What if—”

“You love him?”

Her smile softened. “More than anything.”

“Then look at him when those doors open. Forget the flowers. Forget the guests. Forget the cameras. Let everyone else worry about remembering today.”

“And you?”

“I’ll make sure there’s a today worth remembering.”

The wedding march began.

She squeezed my hands once before stepping away.

I watched her disappear down the aisle toward the man already fighting back tears.

People always assumed weddings made me believe in love.

The truth was less poetic.

They made me believe in planning.

Love was unpredictable.

Checklists weren’t.

Three hours later, the ballroom had transformed into controlled chaos. Servers cleared tables while photographers chased one last perfect shot beneath the chandeliers.

My headset crackled.

“Media wants five minutes.”

I sighed. “They already got twenty.”

“They’re saying your interview is part of the venue contract.”

“Of course it is.”

Nora smirked as she handed me a compact.

“You’ve got lipstick on your chin.”

“I’ve been awake since four.”

“It shows.”

“You’re fired.”

She grinned. “You say that every Saturday.”

“And yet you keep showing up.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Outside, camera lights turned the sidewalk brighter than noon despite the evening sky settling over Manhattan.

The reporter greeted me with practiced enthusiasm.

“Evelyn Brooks, congratulations on another spectacular event.”

“Thank you.”

“People call you New York’s wedding whisperer. Billionaires wait months for an opening in your schedule. Celebrities refuse to walk down the aisle without you. What’s the secret?”

I smiled because it was easier than explaining years spent believing perfection could keep life from falling apart.

“I listen.”

She tilted her head. “To the couple?”

“To everyone.”

“The bride?”

“Especially the people no one else notices. The staff knows when something’s wrong before the guests do. The florist notices details no photographer ever will. The grandmother sitting quietly in the corner usually knows exactly why the bride’s nervous.”

“And the groom?”

“If he’s checking his watch every thirty seconds, don’t ask if he’s anxious.”

“What do you ask?”

“Who he’s waiting for.”

The reporter laughed.

“I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

“Most people don’t.”

The interview wrapped a minute later. Someone thanked me. Someone else asked for a business card. Another assistant hurried over with next week’s schedule.

Life moved exactly the way it always did.

Orderly.

Predictable.

I glanced across the street while sliding my phone into my purse.

A man stood beneath the glow of an old theater marquee.

Black overcoat.

Hands tucked into his pockets.

Still.

Not the distracted stillness of someone scrolling through messages.

Not the restless patience of someone waiting for a ride.

He was simply… watching.

Traffic surged between us, yellow taxis swallowing him from view.

When the street cleared again, he hadn’t moved.

The city rushed around him as though he existed outside its rhythm.

The reporter continued talking.

I didn’t hear a word.

Something tightened low in my chest.

Not fear.

Recognition.

As though I’d opened a book halfway through and somehow knew I’d missed the beginning.

“Ms. Brooks?”

I turned back. “Sorry?”

“We were asking where you’ll be planning your next wedding.”

“Oh.”

I forced a smile.

“I suppose you’ll have to wait for the announcement.”

A few polite laughs followed.

The cameras switched off.

I looked across the street again.

The sidewalk was empty.

No black coat.

No stranger.

Only hundreds of people hurrying toward somewhere that mattered to them.

“Everything okay?” Nora asked.

I kept staring at the place where he’d been.

“Did you see someone standing over there?”

She followed my gaze.

“Across the street?”

“Yes.”

“There are about two hundred people across the street.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

“Never mind.”

Maybe I’d imagined him.

Maybe twelve-hour workdays were finally catching up with me.

Maybe exhaustion could make a person see things that weren’t there.

I climbed into the waiting town car.

As we pulled away from the curb, I caught myself looking through the rear window.

The corner stayed empty.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been watching me long before I’d ever noticed him.