Page 27 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)
Isabella Vitale.
The elegant script mocks me as I set the cream card stock next to Cameron’s nameplate.
I’ve known this was coming for days now, ever since Margaret Weston’s email requesting the seating arrangement be updated to accommodate Isabella.
Ever since I saw those Instagram photos and realized what I was really coordinating—not just Sterling Industries’ anniversary, but the perfect romantic evening for Cameron to celebrate with someone who actually belongs in his world.
And with the big day now here, the first guest arriving at the Esperanza Resort, there’s no more need to torture myself with the what-ifs. It’s here. I just set down Isabella’s nameplate next to Cameron’s.
It had always been a job, wasn’t it? In this case, the biggest event my company has ever had to organize and one I can’t mess up in any way.
Not even if it ends up breaking my heart all over again.
“Lianne!” Amanda appears at my elbow, headset over her ears and her iPad held in front of her. “The photography team needs approval for the red-carpet setup, and catering wants confirmation on the wine service timing.”
I nod, forcing myself to step away from Table One before I do something unprofessional like sweep Isabella’s place card onto the floor. “Handle the photographers. I’ll check with catering.”
The Grand Ballroom buzzes with controlled chaos as our team makes final preparations.
Servers in crisp white uniforms adjust already perfect place settings, florists add last-minute touches to centerpieces of white peonies and gold accents, musicians tune their instruments in the corner where they’ll provide elegant background music during cocktail hour.
Everything is proceeding exactly according to plan. Sterling Industries’ 50th anniversary gala will be the kind of celebration that generates magazine features and referral business for years to come. The culmination of everything Luminous Events has worked toward.
But all I can think about is the woman who’ll be sitting next to Cameron in two hours, and whether seeing her in person will be worse than the torture I’ve been inflicting on myself through social media stalking and Google searches.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see luxury cars beginning to arrive at the resort’s circular drive.
Board members from New York and London, tech industry leaders, families whose names appear on museum wings and hospital foundations.
Cameron’s people, gathering to celebrate fifty years of the kind of success that builds legacies.
My earpiece crackles with updates from our team positioned throughout the venue. “VIP guests arriving at main entrance.” “Media setup complete on the terrace.” “Orchestra ready for seven o’clock start.”
Every detail coordinated, every contingency planned for, every element designed to create an unforgettable evening for people who matter.
I’m coordinating with the sommelier about wine pairings when I catch sight of familiar broad shoulders near the ballroom entrance. Cameron, looking devastating in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, greeting early arrivals with the confident charm that made me fall for him in the first place.
He’s in full host mode, shaking hands with board members, introducing colleagues to family friends, working the room with the effortless grace that comes from a lifetime of high-society events.
This is Cameron in his natural element—wealthy, powerful, completely at home in a world of inherited privilege and strategic connections.
A world where I’ll always be the hired help, no matter how successful my business becomes.
“Lianne.” His voice behind me makes me startle, and I turn to find him approaching, his brow furrowed with concern. “We need to talk.”
I fall back on the only armor I have left. “Is there something about the event that requires adjustment?”
“You know damn well this isn’t about the event.” Cameron steps closer, lowering his voice so the passing servers can’t overhear. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. What the hell is going on?”
Before I can formulate a response that won’t reveal how completely I’ve unraveled, my earpiece crackles with urgent communication from Amanda. “We have a situation with the floral arrangements on Table Twelve. The centerpiece is blocking sight-lines to the podium.”
I press my earpiece, grateful for any excuse to escape this conversation. “On my way.”
“Lianne—” Cameron starts, but I’m already moving toward the problem table, using vendor crises as a shield against questions I’m not ready to answer.
The floral issue takes ten minutes to resolve—a simple adjustment that could have waited but provides exactly the kind of distraction I need. When I return to the main area, Cameron is surrounded by company board members, deep in conversation about quarterly projections and market expansion.
Back in his element, discussing the kind of business that shapes industries and influences policy. The kind of sophisticated discourse I’ll never be equipped to join, no matter how many events I plan or how much I learn about wine pairings and seating protocol.
“Lianne, the Judd family just arrived!” Amanda’s voice carries excitement rather than panic this time, though my stomach drops as I follow her gaze toward the main entrance where a small crowd has gathered.
I watch as Mrs. Judd makes her entrance in an elegant midnight-blue silk gown, her movements graceful and deliberate, while Mr. Judd carries himself with the kind of bearing that draws every eye in the room.
And between them, looking like she stepped out of a fairy tale, is Isabella Vitale.
The Instagram photos didn’t do her justice.
She’s even more beautiful in person, with an ethereal quality that makes everyone else in the room seem slightly out of focus.
Blond hair styled in effortless waves catches the light from the crystal chandeliers, and her champagne-colored gown flows like liquid silk.
But it’s not just her physical beauty that stops my breath—it’s the way she carries herself.
Confident without being arrogant. Gracious without seeming rehearsed. Like she’s never questioned her place in rooms like this because she was born to grace them.
This is the woman Cameron’s parents want for him. This is the woman who belongs at Table One while I coordinate the evening from the sidelines.
Through the crowd, I catch glimpses of Cameron approaching his family. Even from across the room, I can see the moment he spots Isabella—the way his posture straightens, the genuine smile that spreads across his face, the ease with which he greets her.
They embrace with the familiarity of people who’ve known each other for years, and when they separate, Isabella’s hand remains on his arm in a gesture that speaks to comfort rather than possession.
They look like they’re picking up a conversation that was interrupted yesterday rather than reuniting after weeks apart.
As if sensing my attention, Cameron’s gaze finds mine across the ballroom.
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—confusion, maybe concern.
But Isabella chooses that moment to say something that makes him laugh, and his attention returns to her, leaving me feeling like an intruder who’s been caught staring at an intimate moment.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is all in my head, fueled by insecurity and foster care abandonment issues that I thought I’d outgrown.
Maybe Cameron really does love me, and Isabella really is just a family friend, and I’m sabotaging something beautiful because I’m too damaged to believe I deserve happiness.
But then I need to check the champagne service in the VIP reception area, and I overhear fragments of conversation that shatter any remaining hope.
“...timing couldn’t be more perfect...” comes Mrs. Judd’s voice from near the terrace windows.
“...discussing arrangements...” follows an older woman’s response.
I move closer, pretending to adjust floral arrangements while trying to catch more of their conversation.
“...families have been hoping...”
“...understands what’s expected...”
The words are fragmented, incomplete, but combined with everything else I’ve seen and felt over the past few days, they paint a picture I can no longer deny.
Whatever Mrs. Judd and her companion are discussing, it involves expectations and arrangements and perfect timing—the language of strategic alliances disguised as romantic destiny.
“Miss Peralta?” The head chef interrupts my eavesdropping. “We’re ready to begin passed appetizer service. Should we proceed?”
“Yes, absolutely. Everything looks beautiful.”
The next hour passes in a blur of coordinated service and vendor management.
Cocktail hour proceeds flawlessly, with guests mingling on the terrace while servers circulate with champagne and carefully crafted appetizers.
The orchestra provides elegant background music, photographers capture candid moments, and conversation flows with the easy sophistication of people accustomed to luxury events.
From my position managing logistics, I watch Cameron work the room, introducing board members to potential investors, facilitating conversations between colleagues from different divisions, ensuring that guests feel appropriately honored and included.
And through it all, Isabella remains at his side.
Not clinging or possessive, but present in the way that suggests she belongs there.
She contributes intelligently to business conversations, asking thoughtful questions about Sterling Industries’ expansion into renewable energy that demonstrate genuine interest rather than polite small talk.
When elderly board members share stories about the company’s early days, she listens with the kind of engaged attention that makes people feel valued and heard.
She enhances rather than complicates, adds value to every interaction. This is what a suitable partner looks like in Cameron’s world—someone who makes his life easier and more successful simply by being herself.
They don’t just look perfect together—they look inevitable together.
“Lianne. I thought it was you.” Mrs. Judd’s voice behind me carries the kind of warm authority that suggests she’s been planning this conversation.
I turn to face her, forcing my expression into neutral politeness. “Mrs. Judd. Good evening. I trust everything is meeting your expectations?”
“The event is exquisite, dear. Truly sophisticated.” Her tone carries what sounds like genuine appreciation. “You’ve exceeded even my highest expectations, and believe me, I have very particular standards when it comes to family celebrations.”
“Thank you. That means a great deal coming from you.”
Mrs. Judd glances around the ballroom with obvious satisfaction before turning back to me with an expression that’s both kind and somehow final.
“You know, dear, I’ve been watching you work tonight, and I’m genuinely impressed by your dedication. It’s clear you care deeply about creating something special.”
There’s something in her tone—gentle but purposeful—that sets off warning bells.
“I want every event to be memorable,” I reply carefully.
“And this one certainly will be. Though I suspect it will be memorable for reasons beyond just the beautiful coordination.” Her gaze shifts toward where Cameron and Isabella are engaged in animated conversation.
“It’s so wonderful to see Cameron connecting with someone who truly understands his world.
Someone who can be a real partner in all aspects of his life. ”
The words are diplomatically phrased, but their meaning cuts through me like a blade.
“I should check on the dinner service preparation,” I say, desperate to escape before this conversation reveals any more painful truths.
“Of course. But Lianne?” Mrs. Judd’s voice stops me, and when I turn back, her expression is genuinely sympathetic. “I hope you know that I’m not saying this to be unkind. It’s simply that some situations require clarity for everyone’s well-being. You understand, don’t you?”
I understand completely. Mrs. Judd isn’t being cruel—she’s being precise. Drawing clear lines between what I am and what I’ll never be in their world, between the role I’m playing tonight, and the role Isabella was born to fill.
“I understand,” I say, and I do.
I escape toward the kitchen, my heart pounding with the kind of panic that makes breathing difficult. In the relative safety of the service corridor, I lean against the wall and try to process what just happened.
Through the service window, I watch guests beginning to move toward their assigned tables for dinner service.
Cameron escorts Isabella to Table One, pulling out her chair with the kind of gallant attention that suggests genuine care and respect.
She accepts the gesture with natural grace, her smile radiant as she settles into the seat next to his.
They belong there. Together, at that table, in this world.
As the dinner service begins, I retreat to my coordination station, where I can manage the evening’s logistics while remaining invisible to the guests whose magical celebration I’m creating.
This is where I belong, apparently. Managing the magic while others live it.
Some distances can’t be bridged by wanting something badly enough. Some walls are too high to climb, no matter how much you’ve achieved or how deeply you care.
Tonight will be perfect. Every detail flawless. Exactly what Sterling Industries paid for.
But for me, it’s goodbye.