There are brides who dream of their wedding day since childhood, meticulously curating Pinterest boards of lace gowns and cascading peonies.
And then there was Ava Reynolds, who approached her wedding day with the exact same ruthless, data-driven efficiency she used to launch a national coffee franchise.
“If we look at the Q3 deliverables,” Ava said, clicking a button on her presentation remote. The massive monitor in the Hayes & Reynolds conference room switched to a pie chart. “We can see that the floral budget is currently cannibalizing the catering budget at a rate of twelve percent. This is an unsustainable burn rate. We need to pivot.”
Ethan was sitting at the reclaimed walnut conference table, his chin resting on his hand. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with suppressed laughter.
“Ava,” Ethan said gently. “It’s a wedding. Not a hostile takeover.” “It’s an event with two hundred attendees, a six-figure budget, and
a hard deadline,” Ava countered, pacing in front of the screen. She was wearing a sharp blazer over a vintage t-shirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun secured by a pencil. “It requires a unified strategy. If we don’t establish a clear narrative for the reception, the guests will experience aesthetic whiplash.”
“I’m experiencing aesthetic whiplash right now,” Julian Vance drawled from the back of the room.
Julian was slouched in a leather chair, his combat boots resting on the edge of the table. He was holding a stack of heavy-stock card samples. “You want to use a serif font for the invitations, but you want a modern, industrial venue. It’s a contradiction, Reynolds. It says, ‘We are traditional, but we also enjoy exposed ductwork.’ Pick a lane.”
“The serif font is a nod to Ethan’s background in classic copywriting,” Ava defended, pointing the remote at Julian like a weapon. “The
industrial venue represents our new agency. It’s a synthesis of our past and our present.”
“It’s a typographic nightmare,” Julian corrected, tossing the samples onto the table. “I’m the Best Man. It is my sworn duty to protect Ethan from bad kerning.”
“You’re only the Best Man because Ethan doesn’t have any other friends in Chicago,” Sarah Patel announced, marching into the conference room carrying three massive binders. She dropped them onto the table with a deafening thud.
Sarah was the Maid of Honor, a title she had accepted with the solemn gravity of a four-star general going to war.
“I have friends,” Ethan protested mildly.
“You have clients,” Sarah corrected, sitting down next to Julian and immediately invading his personal space to open a binder. “And you have Julian, who is basically a stray cat you started feeding and now he won’t leave.”
Julian slowly turned his head to look at Sarah. His dark eyes dragged lazily over her tailored pink suit. “Careful, Patel. Stray cats have claws.”
“And I have a rolled-up newspaper,” Sarah shot back, though a faint, telltale flush crept up her neck. She aggressively flipped open the first binder. “Ava, I have narrowed down the caterers. We have three tastings scheduled for next week. I also cross-referenced the guest list against the dietary restrictions spreadsheet. We have twelve vegans, four celiacs, and one person who claims to be allergic to ‘negative energy’.”
“That’s my Aunt Linda,” Ethan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Just give her a glass of Pinot Grigio and tell her the chef cleansed the kitchen with sage.”
“Noted,” Sarah said, making a sharp checkmark with a pink highlighter.
Ava looked at the three of them sitting around the conference table. It was a Tuesday afternoon. They were supposed to be working on a
pitch for a boutique hotel group in Denver. Instead, they were arguing about fonts and vegan appetizers.
A sudden, sharp wave of anxiety spiked in Ava’s chest.
She clicked the remote, turning off the monitor. “Okay. Let’s table the aesthetic discussion. We need to talk about the venue. The loft in the West Loop is beautiful, but the deposit is due on Friday, and the contract stipulates that we have to use their preferred vendors. It’s a closed ecosystem. We lose all our leverage.”
“Ava,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into that low, calming register that usually worked on panicked clients. He stood up and walked over to her. “We don’t need leverage. We just need a place to get married.”
“But if we use their vendors, we’re locked into their pricing model,” Ava argued, her heart rate accelerating. She started pacing again. “And their preferred florist wants to use imported orchids. Do you know the carbon footprint of an imported orchid? It’s irresponsible. It’s off-brand.”
“Red,” Ethan murmured, stepping into her path and catching her gently by the waist.
Ava stopped. She looked up at him, her chest heaving slightly. “You’re doing the thing,” Ethan said softly, his thumbs tracing
soothing circles on her hips. “What thing?”
“The thing where you turn an emotional milestone into a logistical puzzle so you don’t have to feel the feelings,” Ethan diagnosed with terrifying accuracy. He smiled, a warm, devastatingly fond expression. “You’re treating our wedding like a fifty-million-dollar pitch because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Ava lied, though she immediately tucked a stray strand of auburn hair behind her left ear. Two quick taps.
Ethan’s smile widened. He reached up and gently pulled her hand away from her ear, lacing his fingers through hers. “You’re terrified. And
that’s okay. But you don’t have to optimize this, Ava. There is no ROI on a wedding. There are no shareholders to appease. It’s just us.”
Ava let out a long, shaky exhale, resting her forehead against his chest. “I just want it to be perfect. I want it to reflect us.”
“It will,” Ethan promised, kissing the top of her head. “Even if we get married in a parking lot and serve lukewarm hot dogs. As long as you’re there, it’s perfect.”
From the conference table, Julian made a loud, exaggerated gagging sound.
“Oh, please,” Sarah snapped at Julian, though she was smiling. “You’re just bitter because you possess the emotional range of a teaspoon.”
“I possess a highly refined aesthetic sensibility,” Julian corrected, standing up and grabbing his leather jacket. “And my aesthetic sensibility is telling me that if I stay in this room for one more minute, I am going to develop a cavity from all the sweetness. I’m going to get coffee. Patel, do you want a matcha, or are you going to continue to drink the toxic sludge from the breakroom?”
Sarah blinked, clearly caught off guard by the casual offer. “I… yes. I would like a matcha. Iced. With oat milk.”
“I know your order, Sarah,” Julian said dryly. He walked out of the conference room, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.
Sarah stared at the door for a long moment, her cheeks burning bright red. She slowly turned back to her binders, aggressively highlighting a completely blank page.
Ava pulled back from Ethan, hiding a smile. “They are exhausting.” “They’re in love,” Ethan corrected, wrapping his arm around her
shoulders. “They just haven’t figured out the logistics yet.”
“Speaking of logistics,” Ava said, leaning into his side. “We really do need to figure out the venue. The West Loop loft is beautiful, but…”
“But it feels like a corporate event space,” Ethan finished for her. Ava looked up at him in surprise. “You think so too?”
“Ava, it has a dedicated coat check and a built-in AV booth,” Ethan laughed. “It’s basically Conference Room B with better lighting. We spend sixty hours a week in an office. Do we really want to get married in one?”
Ava felt a sudden, massive wave of relief wash over her. He was right. She had been so focused on the efficiency of the space that she had completely ignored the soul of it.
“No,” Ava admitted. “I don’t. But where else can we go? We have two hundred people on the guest list. We need a massive space.”
Ethan was quiet for a moment. He looked out the window of their office, watching the afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the Chicago skyline.
“What if we don’t have two hundred people?” Ethan asked quietly. Ava frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, look at the guest list,” Ethan said, walking over to the conference table and pulling Sarah’s binder toward him. He flipped it open to the spreadsheet. “Half of these people are clients. Marcus Kline. The Bean & Leaf executives. The VP of Marketing from the Denver hotel group.”
“They’re important relationships,” Ava defended automatically. “They’re business relationships,” Ethan corrected gently. He looked
up at her, his hazel eyes serious and steady. “Ava, six years ago, I chose my career over my life. I chose the corner office over you. I spent years sitting in rooms full of important people, and I was completely, profoundly alone.”
He walked back over to her, taking both of her hands in his.
“I don’t want our wedding to be a networking event,” Ethan said, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to spend the most important day of my life shaking hands with people who only care about our billing metrics. I want to look out at the crowd and only see the people who actually know us. The people who stayed.”
Ava stared at him, her heart swelling until it felt like it might break her ribs.
He was right. He was so completely, beautifully right. She had been treating the wedding like a PR campaign, trying to project an image of success and stability to the entire Chicago advertising world. She had been building another fortress.
“You want to cut the list,” Ava whispered.
“I want to burn the list,” Ethan smiled, a fierce, joyous light in his eyes. “I want fifty people. Family. Sarah. Julian. Tyler. The people who actually matter.”
“If we cut the list to fifty,” Ava said, her strategic brain rapidly recalculating, “we don’t need the West Loop loft.”
“No, we don’t.”
“We could do it somewhere smaller. Somewhere with actual character.” Ava’s mind raced. “We could do it at O’Malley’s Pub.”
Ethan threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that echoed off the exposed brick walls. “I love you, but I am not getting married in a bar that smells like stale Guinness and bad decisions.”
“Fair,” Ava conceded, grinning. “Okay. Where, then?”
Ethan looked around their office. He looked at the massive industrial windows, the reclaimed wood desks, the mustard-yellow rug where Pixel was currently snoring. He looked at the space they had built together, from scratch, with their own two hands.
“What about here?” Ethan asked softly. Ava blinked. “Here? In the office?”
“It’s not just an office, Ava,” Ethan said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s our sanctuary. It’s the first place we built together. We can clear out the desks. We can string fairy lights from the exposed ductwork. Julian can design a floral installation that doesn’t use imported orchids. We can have a local restaurant cater it.”
Ava looked around the room. She pictured the desks pushed away. She pictured the warm, amber glow of string lights reflecting off the
brick. She pictured fifty of their closest friends and family, standing in the exact spot where she and Ethan had spent the last year building their dream.
It wasn’t a corporate event space. It wasn’t a networking mixer. It was home.
“It’s perfect,” Ava whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She looked up at him, her heart overflowing with a love so massive it was almost terrifying. “Ethan, it’s absolutely perfect.”
“Yeah?” Ethan smiled, his thumbs brushing away a stray tear that escaped down her cheek.
“Yeah.” Ava threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a deep, breathless kiss.
It was the kiss of a woman who had finally stopped trying to optimize her life, and had finally started living it.
The heavy glass door swung open.
“I have the matcha,” Julian announced, walking into the office with two plastic cups. He stopped, looking at Ava and Ethan tangled together in the center of the room. He let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Honestly. It’s like working in a hormone factory.”
Sarah pushed past him, grabbing her matcha. “Leave them alone, Julian. They’re in love.”
“We’re changing the venue,” Ava announced, pulling back from Ethan but keeping her arms around his neck. She looked at Sarah and Julian, a massive, radiant smile on her face. “We’re doing it here. In the office. Fifty people. No clients. No networking.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped. She looked around the office, her eyes wide. “Here? But… what about the caterers? What about the aesthetic?”
“The aesthetic is ‘us’,” Ethan said, pulling Ava flush against his side. He looked at Julian. “Vance, you’re in charge of the lighting and the florals. Make it look like a sanctuary.”
Julian raised a single, dark eyebrow. He looked around the exposed brick, the massive windows, and the industrial ductwork. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
“Industrial romance,” Julian murmured, his artistic brain clearly firing on all cylinders. “Edison bulbs. Cascading greenery. Dark, moody accents to contrast the natural light. I can work with this.”
“And Sarah,” Ava said, turning to her best friend. “Cancel the corporate caterers. Call that amazing Italian place in our neighborhood. The one with the terrible website but the incredible pasta. Let’s just feed people good food.”
Sarah stared at her for a long moment. Then, a slow, proud smile broke across her face. She closed the massive wedding binder with a definitive snap.
“Consider it done, boss,” Sarah said.
Ava leaned her head against Ethan’s shoulder, watching her two best friends immediately start bickering about where to place the altar.
The slide deck was dead. The corporate strategy was abandoned.
And for the first time since she had gotten engaged, Ava Reynolds wasn’t anxious at all. She was just ready.