Page 28 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)
The ballroom is nearly empty, but there’s no sign of Lianne.
Already the venue is in the final stages of breakdown—linens being packed, floral arrangements carefully preserved for guests who want to take the centerpieces home, audiovisual equipment being loaded onto trucks.
I’ve searched everywhere yet Lianne’s nowhere to be found. She’s also not answering her phone.
“Cameron!” Amanda appears at my elbow, looking professionally exhausted but satisfied in the way that comes from executing something complex without major disasters. “Everything went beautifully tonight. Lianne will be so pleased with the media coverage and guest feedback.”
“Where is she?” I ask directly, skipping the pleasantries that suddenly feel irrelevant.
Amanda’s expression becomes more guarded, the kind of careful neutrality that suggests she’s been given specific instructions about how to handle this conversation.
“She coordinated the final vendor departures and supervised equipment breakdown. Made sure every detail was handled properly before anyone left.”
“But where is she now?”
“She asked me to handle any final coordination with you,” Amanda says, her tone apologetic but firm. “She left this for you.”
She hands me a folded note with my name written in Lianne’s precise handwriting—the same careful script I’ve seen on timeline documents and vendor contracts throughout our planning process. I open it with hands that aren’t quite steady.
Cameron,
The event was a success. Sterling Industries should be pleased with the outcome. I need time to process what happened tonight and what it means for us moving forward. Thank you for the opportunity.
- L
The formality of it makes my chest tighten. Professional courtesy wrapped around what feels like a goodbye.
By the time I’ve finished my obligations to the remaining board members—thanking them for flying in from three continents, confirming follow-up meetings about the renewable energy partnerships, ensuring everyone feels appropriately appreciated for their investment in Sterling Industries’ future—the ballroom is nearly empty.
Professional to the end, Lianne had managed her exit the same way she’d managed the entire event—with grace, dignity, and meticulous attention to ensuring everyone else’s needs were met while her own heart was breaking.
She wasn’t running away—she was stepping back with the kind of dignity that maintains everyone’s reputation while protecting her own heart.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the ocean-view suite I had booked for us, surrounded by romantic touches that now feel like mockery.
Champagne chilling in an ice bucket, rose petals scattered across sheets, the Pacific view I’d wanted to wake up to with Lianne in my arms—all of it reduced to evidence of plans that died before they had a chance to breathe.
A soft knock on my suite door interrupts my brooding. I find my mother standing in the hallway, still elegant in her midnight-blue gown despite the late hour, looking like someone who’s had a successful evening.
“Cameron, darling. I saw the light under your door and thought you might still be awake. I wanted to thank you for such a lovely evening.”
I step back to let her enter though every instinct screams that this conversation will only make everything worse. “Luminous Events exceeded every expectation.”
“Yes, they certainly did. That young woman—your event planner—she worked incredibly hard to create something special.” My mother steps into the suite without further invitation, her gaze taking in the champagne bucket and rose petals with the kind of knowing assessment that makes my stomach clench.
“Though I notice she didn’t stay to enjoy the results of her efforts. ”
There’s something in her tone—a satisfaction disguised as concern—that makes me realize this conversation was inevitable. That she came here specifically to discuss Lianne’s absence, to ensure I understand whatever message was delivered during the evening.
“She had other obligations,” I say, though the explanation sounds hollow even to me.
“I’m sure she did.” My mother settles into one of the suite’s elegant chairs, arranging her skirts with the kind of precise movement that suggests she’s prepared for an extended discussion. “Though I must say, I was surprised by your choice of vendors for such a significant celebration.”
The casual way she drops this observation suddenly sets off every warning bell I have.
“What did you do?” I ask, abandoning any pretense of polite conversation. “What did you say to Lianne?”
My mother’s eyebrows rise at my tone, but her expression remains composed. “I simply had a conversation with Miss Peralta about tonight’s significance. Nothing inappropriate, I assure you.”
Her words stop me cold. “What kind of conversation?”
“I mentioned how lovely it was to see you reconnecting with Isabella. Such a beautiful girl, and so perfectly suited to your position.” My mother’s voice carries the same warmth she uses when discussing charity work or family foundations.
“The kind of woman who understands the responsibilities that come with your level of success.”
The same phrase she used four years ago to explain why dating Lianne was inadvisable.
But this time it’s worse—she delivered that message while Lianne was working sixteen-hour days to create the most important event of her career, while she was coordinating every detail of what I’d hoped would be our romantic celebration.
“You told Lianne that Isabella was perfect for me? While she was planning our event?”
“I told her the truth. That Isabella represents everything you need in a life partner—someone who enhances your social position rather than complicating it.” My mother’s voice carries what sounds like genuine satisfaction, as if she’s completed a difficult but necessary task.
“Miss Peralta seemed to understand completely. Such a professional girl, really.”
The condescension in her tone—professional, as if Lianne’s dedication and success are somehow less valuable than inherited position—makes my hands clench into fists. She’s reducing the woman I love to a service provider, someone capable but ultimately temporary.
“What else did you tell her?”
“I simply explained that Isabella has been part of our family circle since childhood, that our families have been close for generations.” She pauses, choosing her words with the kind of care that suggests she knows exactly how devastating they’ll be.
“I may have mentioned that tonight represented something special for our family. That some situations require clarity for everyone’s well-being. ”
Something special. Clarity for everyone’s well-being.
She told Lianne that Isabella wasn’t just a dinner companion but someone with permanent significance, someone whose presence represented family priorities and expectations that would always take precedence over whatever temporary arrangement I might have with an event planner.
“Jesus Christ, Mother. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’ve helped clarify a situation that was becoming unnecessarily complicated for everyone involved.” My mother’s response comes without hesitation, delivered with the kind of certainty that suggests she’s been planning this intervention for weeks.
The fury that builds in my chest is unlike anything I’ve felt since I was a teenager, when I still believed that slamming doors and shouting could change the fundamental power dynamics in our family.
But I’m thirty years old now, financially independent, professionally successful.
I don’t have to accept this interference in my personal life.
“Complicated for who? For you? For your social circle? For business relationships that have nothing to do with my personal happiness?”
“For you, darling. Miss Peralta is a lovely girl, but she comes from a completely different world. The challenges of bridging those differences, the constant work required to help her understand expectations she wasn’t raised with?—”
“What challenges?” The words come out with four years of suppressed frustration, four years of watching other people’s opinions override my own heart.
“The challenge of explaining why I love someone who’s accomplished incredible things through her own merit?
The challenge of introducing my girlfriend to people who should be impressed by her success rather than concerned about her pedigree? ”
“It’s not about pedigree,” my mother says, though we both know that’s exactly what it’s about. “It’s about compatibility, about choosing someone who can support your ambitions rather than requiring constant accommodation.”
“Lianne doesn’t require accommodation. She enhances everything in my life.”
“Does she? Can she discuss international markets with your board members? Does she understand the social expectations that come with your position? Can she navigate the complexities of family foundations and philanthropic obligations without extensive coaching?”
The questions hit like carefully aimed arrows, targeting every insecurity I’ve ever had about bridging different worlds.
But this time, I recognize them for what they are—prejudiced assumptions that have nothing to do with Lianne’s actual capabilities and everything to do with my mother’s need to control outcomes she considers strategically important.