Chapter 8 - THE INVITATION REVISED
Rebecca Sloan stared at me for three full seconds, processing the sudden, radical pivot.
Slowly, a wide, professional smile spread across her face.
“A family appreciation gala,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes lighting up with creative enthusiasm. “At an eight-million-dollar coastal estate overlooking Crystal Cove, with all the catering, floral arrangements, and live music already fully paid for and locked in deposit?”
“Precisely,” I said. “No groom. No forced venue drama. Just two hundred people celebrating resilience, good food, and the fact that we dodged a massive legal bullet.”
“Ms. Whitmore,” Rebecca beamed, tapping her clipboard with a pen. “As a wedding and event planner, I have to tell you—breakup galas are becoming immensely trendy in Orange County. And frankly, this is the best PR recovery I’ve ever managed.”
“Glad I could help your portfolio,” I laughed. “Go ahead and update the vendor portal. Keep my address on the digital invites, but change the header from Whitmore Wedding to Whitmore Family Celebration.”
“Consider it done,” Rebecca said, turning briskly toward her car. “I’ll have the revised invitations out to the guest list by this afternoon!”
I walked back inside the house and returned to the kitchen.
Vanessa was looking up from her teacup, her expression a mix of curiosity and dread. “Who was at the door? More bad news?”
“Quite the opposite,” I said, pulling up a chair beside her. “Rebecca was here. We’re keeping the date.”
Vanessa dropped her spoon against the saucer with a loud clatter. “Are you out of your mind?! Why would we keep the date?! Everyone in Orange County knows I was supposed to be getting married!”
“Which is precisely why we’re throwing a massive gala instead,” I said smoothly. “We’re keeping the catering, keeping the band, keeping the ocean view, and throwing the biggest, most fabulous single-woman celebration this coastline has ever seen. You’re going to wear a stunning emerald-green gown, walk out onto that lawn with your head held high, and show every single person in attendance that your life didn’t end because you dropped a toxic con artist.”
Vanessa stared at me, her eyes glistening with fresh tears—not of sorrow this time, but of shock and overwhelming gratitude.
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“You’re doing this for me?” she whispered. “After everything I put you through... after I threw tomato sauce in your face?”
“Consider it payback for the dry cleaning bill,” I grinned, winking at her. “Now finish your tea. We have a guest list to audit and a very expensive party to reclaim.”
