The Wedding Planner's Billionaire Contract

The most important smile of Elena Torres's career was the one she didn't use.

She saved it, letting it warm her from the inside as the last slide of her presentation faded to black. The custom-designed proposal books lay unopened on the immaculate glass conference table, but that was expected. The Thornes were not people who needed pretty pictures. They were people who bought the artists.

"In summary," Elena said, her voice cutting the sterile air of the boardroom with practiced calm, "what the Thorne-Greenway merger requires is not a wedding. It is a strategic campaign for public sentiment. My firm specializes in crafting that narrative."

She tapped her tablet, and the lights rose incrementally, revealing her audience. Three lawyers. Two stone-faced public relations executives. And him.

Alexander Thorne sat at the head of the table like a king holding court over a particularly tedious province. He hadn't moved during her twenty-minute presentation. His attention, when he deigned to grant it, felt less like an appraisal and more like an audit. He was younger than she'd expected from the financial press clippings-maybe early thirties-but age hadn't softened him. It had honed him. His suit was a dark, expensive charcoal, and it wore him like armor.

"The timeline," she continued, gesturing to the screen behind her, "is aggressive but achievable. A six-month engagement narrative, culminating in a ceremony at the Grand Lyric. Every detail, from the leaked floral choices to the exclusive bridal gown fitting, will be curated to signal stability, tradition, and... joyous union." She allowed a professional, closed-lipped smile. "Perception moves markets. We aim to make this perception priceless."

One of the lawyers, a man with a voice like rustling legal briefs, cleared his throat. "The NDAs for all vendors..."

"Are standard in my top-tier package," Elena finished, her tone respectful but firm. "As is the vetting of all staff and the security protocol for digital leaks. Your privacy is the foundation of the illusion."

She fielded two more logistical questions about permits and insurance, her answers crisp and automatic. Her mind, however, was fixed on the silent figure at the head of the table. She was used to nervous fathers-of-the-bride and overefficient wedding planners. Alexander Thorne was a different species. He was a glacier, and she was trying to sell him fire.

Finally, as the PR team began discussing hashtag strategies, he moved. A single, deliberate shift of his hand, dismissing their chatter into silence.

The room stilled.

His eyes, a cool, arctic gray, lifted from the polished table and pinned her in place. "Ms. Torres."

"Mr. Thorne."

"Your portfolio is extensive. Your references, flawless." He spoke quietly, but each word carried. "Tell me, in all these productions you've engineered... what percentage of the couples you make look in love are actually in it?"

The question landed like a shard of ice in the warm room. It wasn't about logistics. It was a philosophical strike at the very heart of her profession. The lawyers looked down. The PR executives froze.

Elena felt the challenge like a physical touch. This was the real test. She met his gaze, refusing to blink, refusing to show the flicker of personal injury the question sparked. He's not asking about them, she realized. He's assessing my capacity for cynicism.

She tilted her head, a calculated gesture of consideration. "My primary metric, Mr. Thorne, isn't authenticity. It's believability. I deal in objective reality: photographs, press coverage, social media sentiment analysis. The subjective truth of a relationship..." She paused, choosing her next words as the final, crucial piece of her pitch. "...is a private matter. My job is to ensure the public never feels the need to question it."

For a long, suspended moment, he said nothing. His expression was unreadable, a mask carved from marble. Then, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. Not of approval, but of acknowledgment. He had thrown a spear, and she had not flinched.

"Thank you, Ms. Torres. We'll be in touch."

The dismissal was clear. The meeting was over.

Elena packed her sleek leather portfolio with steady hands, her movements precise. She exchanged polite goodbyes with the others, her professional mask firmly in place. It wasn't until she was alone in the elevator, the mirrored walls reflecting a woman who looked perfectly composed, that she let out a slow, controlled breath. Her knuckles, she noticed, were white where she'd gripped her tablet case.

She had been good. She had been perfect. And she had no idea if it was enough.

As she stepped into the bustling Manhattan lobby, her phone vibrated. An unknown number with a 212 area code. She answered, her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar stutter against her ribs.

"Ms. Torres? Clara Reed, Mr. Thorne's executive assistant. He was impressed with your... pragmatic approach."

Elena's grip tightened on the phone. "Thank you."

"He requests you return tomorrow morning at nine. To discuss a discrete expansion of the proposal's scope. He'll see you alone."

The line went dead.

Elena stood motionless amidst the flow of pedestrians. Discrete expansion. The words hung in the air, heavy and opaque. This wasn't about planning a wedding anymore.

A cold, thrilling realization dawned on her. It was about being offered a role in one.