Page 30 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

I should be celebrating like everyone else in the office. I should be screaming at the top of my lungs, “I made it!” and meaning every word.

It’s everything I ever dreamed of and more.

Yet here I am three days later, surrounded by vendor contracts and site inspection reports, using work as armor against the pain that sits in my chest like a stone.

My office has become a fortress where I can hide behind professional obligations, scheduling back-to-back meetings and venue visits that leave no time for processing what happened Saturday night.

It’s exactly what I’m doing when Amanda appears in my doorway looking concerned.

“The Martinez wedding photos are ready for review,” she says, settling into the chair across from my desk. “Maria and Carlos want to schedule a time to go through them with you personally.”

“Schedule something for next week,” I say without looking up from the contract I’m pretending to review.

“I tried. You’re already booked solid through Friday with vendor meetings, site visits, and three new client consultations that came in because of the Sterling Industries coverage.

” Amanda pauses. “Plus you added that Highland Community Center fundraiser planning session and two additional venue scouting trips that weren’t on yesterday’s calendar. ”

She’s right. I’ve been scheduling everything I can think of, accepting every meeting request, volunteering for projects I’d normally delegate. Anything to fill the hours between now and some imaginary future when thinking about Cameron won’t feel like touching a live wire.

“We made it, Lianne,” Amanda continues, her voice gentle. “After all our hard work, this event put us on the map. Our phones haven’t stopped ringing since Sunday morning.”

The success should energize me. This is what we’ve worked toward for four years—the kind of industry recognition that establishes Luminous Events among the top tier of luxury planners in Los Angeles. The validation that we belong in rooms filled with people who shape policy and influence culture.

But all I can think about is Cameron’s face during those society photographs, the easy way Isabella fit into conversations with board members, the comfortable familiarity that spoke to years of shared history and mutual understanding.

“So, about Mr. Judd,” Amanda begins carefully. “He’s called seventeen times since Sunday. Should I continue taking messages?”

Seventeen times. Each call a reminder of the weekend we were supposed to share, the plans we’d made, the future I’d stupidly allowed myself to believe in.

“Yes. Keep taking messages.”

My phone buzzes with another text, and despite my better judgment, I glance at the screen.

Cameron:

Please call me. I know Saturday night looked bad, but there’s so much you don’t know about what really happened.

I turn the phone face-down without responding.

What more is there to know? I watched him play the perfect couple with Isabella while I coordinated their celebration from behind the scenes.

I listened to his mother explain why Isabella represents everything he needs in a partner while I ensured their wine glasses stayed filled.

Some truths don’t require additional context.

“You know,” Amanda says, “I’ve never seen you this focused on work after a major success. Usually you’re planning how to leverage the media coverage, not burying yourself in vendor contracts.”

“I’m being thorough,” I say, which sounds better than admitting I’m using spreadsheets and timeline documents as emotional anesthesia.

“You’re being obsessive. Yesterday you reviewed the same catering proposal four times, and this morning you scheduled venue visits for three locations we’ve already toured twice.” Amanda leans forward. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t grabbed from the vending machine?”

I can’t remember. Food has become an afterthought, something that interferes with the constant motion that keeps me from thinking too clearly about Saturday night.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re running on caffeine and stubbornness, and it’s starting to show.” Amanda’s voice carries the kind of concern that comes from working closely with someone for years. “The team’s worried about you.”

Before I can deflect with another work-related topic, my office door opens and Maya walks in, her expression carrying the determination of someone who’s decided an intervention is necessary.

“Amanda called me,” she announces without preamble. “She’s worried you’re having some kind of breakdown disguised as a productivity surge.”

“I’m not having a breakdown. I’m capitalizing on our success?—”

“You’re hiding,” Maya interrupts, settling into the chair next to Amanda with the air of someone prepared for a long conversation. “When’s the last time you left this office for something other than a business meeting?”

I try to think and realize she’s right. Since Sunday morning, I’ve moved between my apartment and office like someone following a prescribed route, avoiding any location that might carry memories or require emotional processing.

“I’ve been busy?—”

“You’ve been scared,” Maya says with characteristic directness. “Scared of dealing with whatever happened Saturday night, so you’re working yourself into exhaustion to avoid feeling anything.”

The accuracy of the observation hits harder than I expect.

Because she’s right—I have been scared. Scared of the hurt that threatens to overwhelm me every time I stop moving, scared of examining what Saturday night really meant, scared of facing how completely I misjudged my place in Cameron’s life.

“Look, I don’t know what happened at your gala,” Maya continues, her tone shifting to something gentler. “You haven’t told me, and I’m not pushing for details. But I know you, and this isn’t how you handle success. This is how you handle heartbreak.”

The word hangs in the air between us, simple and accurate and devastating.

“You need to get out of here,” Maya says finally. “Do something normal. Something that has nothing to do with work or clients or whatever went wrong Saturday night. Go home, take a shower, eat real food. Remember that you exist outside of Luminous Events.”

“I have meetings?—”

“Amanda can handle the meetings. Can’t you, Amanda?”

“Absolutely,” Amanda agrees immediately. “Most of them are preliminary consultations anyway. I can do the initial screenings and reschedule anything that needs your personal attention.”

Maya stands. “Go do something that makes you feel like yourself again. Whatever that is—go to a bookstore, walk on the beach, buy groceries like a normal human being. Something that reminds you who you were before you let this job consume your entire identity.”

After they leave, I sit in my empty office surrounded by evidence of professional triumph that feels hollow without someone to share it with.

The Sterling Industries folder sits on my desk, representing both my greatest success and my most devastating misjudgment about where I stood in Cameron’s world.

Maybe Maya’s right about needing to do something normal, something that exists outside the professional fortress I’ve built around myself. Maybe returning to routines that existed before Cameron became part of them will help me remember how to exist independently again.

Maybe then, I can remember that I was whole before him, and I can be whole again—with or without him.

Tuesday afternoon arrives with that particular Los Angeles haze that makes everything feel slightly unreal. I drive to Santa Monica alone, my stomach twisting with anxiety about returning to a place so loaded with recent memories but determined to reclaim routines that belong to me.

The weekday afternoon farmers market is smaller than the weekend version, more intimate, with fewer crowds and a different energy.

Vendors call out daily specials to the mix of locals doing midweek shopping and tourists discovering fresh California produce.

The sweet scent of strawberries and the organized chaos of people selecting ingredients should feel comforting, but instead it feels like visiting the scene of a crime.

“Lianne!” Mrs. Chavez’s voice carries across the strawberry stand, warm and welcoming. “I was wondering where you’ve been. And your handsome boyfriend—is he parking the car?”

The question hits me hard, confirming exactly what I’d feared about returning here. I force a smile and approach her stand. “Just me today, Mrs. Chavez. Cameron’s busy with work.”

“Ah, business, always business with successful men.” She shakes her head sympathetically while selecting the ripest strawberries. “But he’ll be back next week, yes? Such a lovely couple you make.”

I nod noncommittally and accept the berries she insists on giving me, my throat too tight to explain that there won’t be a next week, that the lovely couple she’d been watching develop over three Saturday mornings has dissolved back into separate lives.

I move away from the strawberry stand before I can embarrass myself with tears, heading toward the organic vegetable vendors where I can regroup without well-meaning questions about missing boyfriends.

The herb vendor who’d explained different oregano varieties to Cameron and me.

The honey stand where he’d insisted on buying three different types.

The artisanal bread baker who’d recommended the perfect sourdough for French toast.

Every stall carries memories, but gradually I start to remember that I’d loved this market before Cameron became part of it. That I’d been shopping here for years, building relationships with vendors who valued my business and appreciated my interest in their products.

Maybe Maya’s right about reclaiming normalcy. Maybe returning to routines that existed independently can help me remember who I am outside of failed relationships and professional success.