Page 54 of No Strings Attached
Henson doesn’t speak, but his hand brushes gently over mine.
The estate’s grand wooden doors are already propped open, golden light spilling out into the evening, and as we step inside, Henson whistles.
“Holy shit.”
I watch him take it all in—the greenery and glass baubles glowing like stars above the dance floor, the tables dressed in deep midnight blue linens and gold candlelight, the soft classical music playing as guests arrive, champagne already bubbling in flutes across the room.
“You did this?” he says, still looking around, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Well.” I fight back a grin. “With the help of an incredible team. But yeah.”
He turns to me slowly. “You’re magic. You didn’t just plan a party—you built a goddamn dream.”
I swallow hard, heart climbing up into my throat. “Thank you.”
He leans down, and presses a kiss to my temple. “Proud of you, Mira.”
The words hit deeper than I expect, and I have to remindmyself that, no matter how perfect this moment feels—it’s still real.
The night unfolds effortlessly.
Still, I don’t stop moving.
I float between tables, check in with the catering staff, give subtle nods to the AV team, and help a tipsy guest find the bathroom. It’s what I do best: blend into the rhythm of the event while making sure no one notices how many fires I’m putting out behind the scenes.
I duck into the hallway for a quiet moment, mentally checking off the dessert delivery and fireworks cue, when movement catches my eye.
An elegant woman enters the hall. A sequined cape is draped on her shoulders over a fitted black dress, hair pinned in soft waves, not a single detail out of place.
It takes me a second to recognize her from the coffee shop where I met up with Jules a few days ago.
The woman walks with confidence toward Nadine, and I watch as they greet each other with a hug and kiss on the cheek. They laugh, and something about her smile makes my stomach twist.
She must be family. A cousin, maybe? There’s affection there, though something doesn’t sit right. I can’t explain it—it’s not what the woman’s doing, exactly. Just... something.
As if sensing my silent scrutiny, Nadine glances my way. I flick my gaze away instinctively, but it’s too late. She calls for me to come over.
I swallow the awkward lump in my throat and walk toward them with a smile that feels more like a mask.
“Amira,” Nadine says brightly, resting a hand on my arm, “I’d love for you to meet Ce?—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” a staff member cuts in, breathless. “Amira, we’ve got a situation in the kitchen. You’re gonna want to see this.”
My pulse jumps.
I glance between the two women, apologetic. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”
Then I turn and hurry into the kitchen, grateful for the interruption.
Inside, it’s a flurry of activity. One of the pastry chefs flags me down, eyes wide.
“It’s the cake,” she says, already moving back toward the far prep table. “One of the servers bumped the cart and it nearly toppled. The top tier slid halfway off.”
My heart stutters. “Is it salvageable?”
“I’m fixing it. We caught it just in time. A few flowers shifted, but nothing major. It will be picture-perfect.”
I release a breath and offer a grateful nod. “Thank you. Seriously. Crisis averted.”
