Page 24 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

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 you bring 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.

“She’s a sweet girl, but she’s just not quite the right fit for our family. The agency found us someone younger, more... adaptable.”

Not quite the right fit. The story of my life, dressed up in polite language that couldn’t hide the truth—I was temporary, replaceable, never quite enough to be chosen permanently.

“Lianne?” Terry’s voice cuts through my spiral, his expression concerned. “You’re pale as a sheet. Are you feeling okay?”

I quickly close Instagram, hoping my face doesn’t reveal the nausea churning in my stomach. “Just tired. Final week stress, you know how it is.”

“Maybe you should eat something,” Sandra suggests gently. “I can grab you a sandwich from downstairs.”

“I’m fine. Really. Let’s finish going through the timeline.”

But I’m not fine. My mind is reeling, trying to reconcile the intimate moments Cameron and I have shared over the past three weeks with this image of him at a family celebration with a woman who clearly belongs in his world in ways I never will.

After my team files out, chattering about final preparations and weekend plans, I’m alone with my shattered illusions and the Instagram post that’s still burning in my memory.

I could call him. Ask him directly about Isabella, about why he didn’t mention attending a family party, about what “family friend” means in the context of someone who generates “power couple vibes” commentary.

But that would mean admitting I’ve been googling his family, stalking his social media like some insecure girlfriend.

It would mean showing him that despite everything I’ve accomplished, despite the successful business I’ve built and the reputation I’ve earned, I’m still that foster kid who’s terrified of not being chosen, of being told I’m not quite the right fit.

My phone buzzes with a text from Cameron— Missing you. Thinking about last night. Can’t wait to see you tonight.

Last night had been perfect. We’d made love with urgent tenderness, and I’d fallen asleep in his arms completely secure in the knowledge that this was real, that we were building something that would last. He’d traced patterns on my bare shoulder while we talked about everything and nothing, his voice soft in the darkness as he told me about his childhood, his dreams, his fears.

Now I’m wondering if I’m living in a fantasy while he navigates the reality of family expectations and social obligations that will always take precedence over whatever we have together.

Before I can process this thought fully, another email notification appears on my screen. This one makes my already fragile composure crack completely.

Hi Lianne,

Everything looks spectacular for Saturday! One tiny adjustment to the seating chart—we need to add Isabella Vitale at table one, seated next to Cameron Judd. The Vitale family will be joining us as special guests. I know it’s last-minute, but I’m sure you can work your magic.

Looking forward to an amazing evening!

Best regards, Margaret Weston Executive Assistant to Cameron Judd Sterling Industries

I read the email three times before the words fully register.

Isabella Vitale. Seated next to Cameron at the gala I’ve spent months planning. At my event, where I’ll be coordinating their perfect evening while they sit together like the power couple those Instagram comments claimed they were.

This is exactly how it started four years ago.

Him making choices about his social world without including me, then expecting me to smile and accommodate whatever his family needed.

I swore I’d never put myself in that position again—never be the woman on the sidelines while he lived his real life with people who actually belonged.

The irony is suffocating. I’ll be the one ensuring their crystal glasses stay filled, their conversation flows smoothly, their every need anticipated and met. I’ll facilitate their romance while wearing a headset that announces to everyone exactly what I am in this scenario—the help.

My phone rings, Cameron’s name flashing on the screen with that photo of him laughing that I took last weekend at the farmers’ market.

The same weekend when he’d kissed me between the tomato stands and told Mrs. Chavez we were a couple.

For the first time in three weeks, seeing that photo doesn’t make me smile.

I let it go to voicemail.

Almost immediately, my phone chimes with a voicemail notification. Against my better judgment, I play it back, my heart racing with something between hope and dread.

“Hey, beautiful. Just wanted to hear your voice before my afternoon meetings. I know you’re swamped with final preparations, but I can’t stop thinking about last night.

” His voice drops to that intimate tone that usually makes my pulse race.

“The way you fell asleep in my arms, how perfect you looked this morning making coffee in my shirt. I’m counting down the hours until I can see you again. Call me when you get a chance.”

The message should warm me, should remind me of why I fell for him again after four years of trying to forget him.

Instead, it feels like evidence of how compartmentalized his life is—how easily he can be intimate with me in private while maintaining completely separate social obligations that don’t include me.

I delete the voicemail without calling him back.

Outside my office windows, Los Angeles spreads out in afternoon sunshine, the city where I’ve built my business and my life looking suddenly foreign.

Saturday night, this view will be filled with people celebrating Sterling Industries’ anniversary.

The event will be a success—I’m confident about that.

Luminous Events will receive glowing reviews, new client referrals, industry recognition that will establish us among the top tier of luxury event planners in Southern California. I should be thrilled.

But all I can think about is that scared little girl who learned early that no matter how good you are, how hard you try, how much you love the people taking care of you, there’s always someone more suitable waiting to take your place.

And sometimes, the people you love most are the ones who do the replacing.