Page 46 of Worth the Wait
But I’d noticed how he checked his phone during dinner, how he lowered his voice when answering a call from his assistant. Not dismissive exactly, but... careful. Like he was managing two different lives and making sure they didn’t intersect inappropriately.
“Sorry about that,” he’d said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Work never really stops.”
“I understand. I’m the same way with events.”
But it hadn’t felt the same. His work seemed to involve levels of social complexity that mine didn’t—family obligations, board expectations, the kind of inherited responsibilities that come with names like Judd and connections stretching back generations.
“Terry, can you double-check the lighting cues for the ceremony?” I ask, pulling myself back to the meeting. “I want to make sure the transitions are seamless.”
“Already confirmed with the technical team,” Terry replies. “Though I should mention that we received a last-minute addition to the guest list. The bride’s cousin is bringing a plus-one.”
Plus-ones. The bane of every event planner’s existence, especially when they arrive with forty-eight hours’ notice. But we’re professionals. We adapt, accommodate, make the impossible look effortless.
“How many additional guests are we talking about?”
“Just one, but she has dietary restrictions. Severe shellfish allergy.”
“Send the updated information to catering immediately. Better to over-communicate than risk an emergency.” I make a note on my iPad, adding it to the growing list of final details that separate successful events from disasters.
Out of habit, I open Instagram to check industry accounts—something I do religiously to stay current on trends and competition. Usually it’s helpful research, giving me insight into what our target clientele values and how they celebrate milestone moments.
The first few posts are standard luxury event content—a Malibu wedding with cascading white orchids, the photographer capturing the way sunlight filters through the ceremony arch; a corporate gala at the Beverly Hills Hotel featuring ice sculptures that probably cost more than most people’s cars; a charity auction in Newport Beach with celebrity guests posing beside art pieces worth more than most people’s houses. I mentally catalog details that might inspire future proposals—the way dramaticlighting transforms a simple venue, the strategic placement of branded signage that feels elegant rather than commercial.
A tech executive’s anniversary party catches my attention—floating candles in an infinity pool, string quartet positioned on a glass platform above the water. The kind of impossible logistics that require months of coordination and unlimited budgets. I screenshot the lighting design for future reference, already imagining how we might adapt the concept for a waterfront venue.
Next is a pharmaceutical heiress’ daughter’s sweet sixteen—a winter wonderland theme in July, complete with imported snow machines and crystal chandeliers suspended from temporary pavilion structures. Over-the-top even by our standards, but the execution is flawless. The kind of event that generates referrals for years and establishes a planner’s reputation among the ultra-wealthy.
Then I see it, and my heart stops.
The story is a carousel of photos from what looks like an elaborate children’s birthday celebration. Professional photography captures every detail of a full carnival setup—a carousel, cotton candy machines, an actual ferris wheel installed in what appears to be a Bel Air backyard. The kind of extravagance that makes my biggest budget look modest.
But it’s the third slide that steals my breath and makes the conference room fade around me.
Cameron, devastatingly handsome in a navy blazer and perfectly pressed khakis, standing next to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s blond with the kind of effortless elegance that comes from a lifetime of personal stylists and Europeanfinishing schools. Her smile is confident and warm, her hand resting casually on Cameron’s arm with the familiarity of someone completely comfortable in his world.
Behind them, I can see glimpses of the elaborate party setup, but all I can focus on is how natural they look together, how perfectly they fit into this world of casual extravagance.
The caption reads—Gorgeous celebration for little Alessandra Judd-Martinelli’s 3rd birthday! Her mom Sandra threw the most amazing carnival-themed party — a full ferris wheel in the backyard! Uncle Cameron looked so handsome with family friend Isabella Vitale. These two are giving us serious power couple vibes!
Alessandra Judd-Martinelli. Cameron’s niece. Sophia’s daughter.
The recognition hits like ice water, followed immediately by a sickening realization. Last weekend, Cameron had mentioned something about a “casual family thing” — I’d been rushing between vendor meetings for the Martinez wedding, distracted by timeline pressures and budget approvals. When he’d asked if I wanted to join him, I’d barely looked up from my laptop.
“I have that Malibu vendor site visit,” I’d said, already mentally calculating drive times and appointment schedules. “Maybe after the gala, when things settle down.”
He’d kissed the top of my head and said he understood, that there would be other family gatherings.
Except this wasn’t just any family gathering. This was his three-year-old niece’s birthday party — the kind of milestone family celebration that actually matters. The kind of event where youbring someone you’re serious about, where children get to know the people who might become permanent fixtures in their lives.
And I’d chosen a vendor meeting over being there with him.
Now I’m staring at photos of Cameron with Isabella Vitale at the exact event I’d declined to attend, where she clearly fit in effortlessly while I was across town discussing floral arrangements for someone else’s wedding. While I was prioritizing business over our relationship, she was naturally integrating into his family life.
My hands start shaking as I scroll through the comments beneath the photo, each one feeling like a small knife to my chest. Someone gushing about how they look perfect together. Another saying they’re obviously meant for each other. A third commenting about what a strategic match they’d make, how it’s about time Cameron found someone from his own circle.
Someone from his own circle.
Suddenly I’m twelve years old again, standing in the hallway of my third foster home, listening to Mrs. Patterson explain to her sister why I’d have to be moved to yet another placement.
