#3 The Noise Outside the Door.

The Ashwoods knew how to host an event.

They didn’t throw wedding. They staged power play in formalwear.

It wasn’t just a celebration. It was a performance, a public spectacle, grand, calculated, an orchestra of connections, whispers, and way too many people who didn’t care about the couple but cared deeply about the headlines.

The grand hall was glowing shimmered in wealth, every inch polished for optics with soft ivory and golden sconces flickered along vaulted walls. A string quartet was playing just loud enough to keep conversations sounding elegant that drifted in English, French, and the language of power. The chandelier above looked like starlight caught in crystal spilling golden light across polished marble. The air smelled of imported roses, expensive nerves, and perfectly chilled champagne which flowed like rivers, older than half the guests.

And so were the grudges.

Guests mingled in curated clusters, politicians, corporate heirs, old-money socialites draped in jewels, and the  journalists lurked like perfume in the corners, flashing smiles and cameras politely around the edges, desperate for a glimpse of Scarlett Jonathan, the soon-to-be bride of Damien Ashwood.

But she wasn’t here. Not yet.

Instead, the Ashwood family stood poised like statues at the edge of a dynasty, graceful, powerful, and slightly terrifying.

Margaret Ashwood, flawless in navy, stood near the floral arch, every inch the queen of this quiet empire.

Thomas Ashwood, her husband, floated beside her, like a shadow, mild & forgetful.

Alaric Ashwood, the patriarch, sat near the front row with his cane resting beside him like a warning dressed in wood and silver, watching all of it unfold like a man who knew how empires were both built and broken.

And, Edmund Ashwood, Damien’s uncle, always two feet from power, laughed in whispers with a foreign diplomat, drink untouched, flanked by his secretary: Maria Alden. His secretary.

Some said she had once been more. No one said it twice.

Maria was dressed in steel gray satin, her dark hair in a knot too perfect to move & stood calm and unreadable just behind Edmund’s shoulder, lips still, eyes everywhere. She wasn’t here as a guest but as a presence. Her gaze scanned the room like a sniper, cool, elegant, dangerous.

Maria didn’t speak much cause she didn't need to. Either way, she hadn’t blinked once after entering the hall.

Damien, of course, as always, stood apart, near the aisle, perfectly tailored and perfectly alone.

Calm. Cold. Unbothered.

He was impossible to read. Hands in his pockets. Jaw tight. Suit flawless. He looked like a man bored of waiting and used to getting his way.

To anyone watching, he was a composed groom.

But to anyone listening… he hadn’t spoken in over ten minutes.

And amid all this silent perfection, Risa Shaw, the people-wrangler, the troubleshooter and minor goddess of crisis moved like caffeine in a room of wine.

The Ashwoods might have controlled the stage, but Risa Shaw ran the show.

Risa was one of the most sought-after wedding planners in the country not because she was polite, but because she was fast, flawless, and had a habit of making the impossible happen while wearing heels and a shade of lipstick that said “don’t test me.”

Her heels clicked like punctuation marks against marble. Her headset buzzed with whispers from panicked vendors. And still, she smiled. A clipboard tucked under her arm. And a mild panic rising behind her ribs.

She passed between staff like a general, adjusting napkins, lowering candlelight, and defusing tempers with the speed of someone who was too tired to be afraid of elites anymore.

“Okay, the string quartet needs to switch to the walk-down piece in fifteen,” she muttered in her headset, flipping her smudged clipboard, checking the timeline. “Florals fixed. The seating for the governor’s family is still off. The cake is crooked. Priest’s drinking quietly in a corner, and one minor detail: our bride, still in hiding. Amazing, we love a climax.”

She scanned the room and spotted Garrett Jonathan sitting alone near the bar, sipping ginger ale like it was whiskey and the world had personally betrayed him.

She marched over like a storm dressed in pastel.

“You,” she pointed. "Groom’s side or Bride’s side?”

He raised a brow. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

“Risa Shaw. Planner. Chaos-fighter. Miracle worker.”

He gave a wry smile. “Garrett. Brother of the bride. Occasional buzzkill & I believe miracles take longer.”

“They do. That’s why I need you to go get your sister so she can walk down the aisle and marry your favorite future brother-in-law.”

“Ah.” Garrett sipped his drink. “You’re new to this family, aren’t you?”

“Brand new. Still holding onto hope and hydration. So... will you go?”

“I’m her elder brother. So, that's not happening.” He replied dryly.

“Well, someone has to go. Mr. Damien looks like he’s about to kill the string section.”

He glanced toward his mother, Elena Jonathan, who was deep in conversation with an oil tycoon’s wife, her laughter just a little too loud. Unavailable as ever. He looked back, jaw tightening.

“My mother’s too busy showing off to check on her own daughter.” His voice dipped, tired and bitter.

“And you?” Risa asked, catching the flicker in his tone. “Too busy brooding to help?”

“No, just trying to avoid throwing Damien down a marble staircase.”

Risa blinked. “Okay. Love that. Let’s bottle that rage for later. Right now we need Ms. Scarlett here. They’re stalling the aisle music for her.”

“I’ll get someone else.”

He scanned around again but this time with his jaw tightened.

“Where’s Isabelle?”

Garrett found her near the rose wall backdrop, holding a flute of champagne she hadn’t touched and basking in the attention of girls who tried a little too hard to be her.

Isabelle Jonathan.

She was stunning, in that surgically perfect, editorial-magazine way. Hair curled like a porcelain doll, dress fitted to her flawless curves, and heels that could kill a man twice. But what really made her dangerous was her mouth and the boredom behind her eyes, surrounded by a flock of bored heiresses.

Garrett stopped a few steps from her, already bracing and looked at their youngest sibling lounging on a chaise like she’d invented the concept. Pink lips, perfect curls, and an expression that said “I don’t care unless it costs at least a thousand dollars.”

If Scarlett was poetry, Isabelle was the punchline.

“Isabelle.”

“No.” She didn’t even glance his way.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You want me to check on Scarlett. And I’m telling you, NO!”

...

“Not even a hello?”

“I’d rather save my breath for something meaningful. Like sipping this trash champagne.”

Garrett exhaled. “Scarlett’s not in the hall. She’s still in the bridal room. Everyone’s waiting.”

“And this is my problem, why?”

“You’re her sister."

She snorted. “Barely. She’s more like a myth in this family. Always polite, locked in her room. I’ve spoken more words to this glass than I have to Scarlett in the last month.”

“She raised you.”

“Correction, she fed me and told me not to touch the stove. That’s not the same thing.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You know damn well she gave up her teen years for you.”

“Because someone had to after Dad’s work hours and Mom’s charity galas.”

“Yeah. Someone. Not you, apparently.”

That finally got her to look at him sharp, amused, venom behind the gaze.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, it must be nice to walk into every room like it owes you something. Scarlett sacrificed everything and all you’ve ever done is call her boring.”

“Because she is,” Isabelle shot back. “She’s quiet and mousy and lets people walk all over her. That’s not strength, Garrett. It’s passivity. She’s the bride, not a ghost. And if she didn’t want this marriage, maybe she should’ve said something before she let Mom choose her dress.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that Scarlett always played the martyr, and we all applauded it. You, especially.”

“At least I appreciated her,” he said, voice low. “You treat her like she’s in your way.”

“That’s because she was,” Isabelle snapped. “She was always everyone’s soft spot. I had to be sharp because there was no space left for fragile.” (⁠ノ⁠ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ⁠)⁠ノ

Garrett sighed heavily, "Okay, I know you have your own issues with her, but you are her bridesmaid for today. Don't forget that."

"Well, I only agreed because Mom promised me a new car. She didn't necessarily say that I have to behave like her bridesmaid, so that doesn't count." Isabelle said smirking.

“You want her out of that room, go ask her yourself,” Isabelle mocked. “Or better yet get Damien to drag her down the aisle. He’s good at taking what he wants anyway.”

Garrett stiffened. That landed too close.

“And you’re the family pet. NOW MOVE!” Garrett ordered coldly this time using his elder brother card. (⁠⌐⁠■⁠-⁠■⁠)

She scoffed. “God, you sound like Dad.”

“And you sound like an annoying crow.”

"Only an equally annoying jackass would say that."

They glared. ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ

It wasn’t new. Garrett and Isabelle had been arguing since birth. She thought he was all bark. He thought she was all bite. Both were right.

The tension was heavy enough to wrinkle satin. Nearby, Risa Shaw hovered like someone watching a spark crawl toward gasoline.

She stepped between them like someone defusing a glittery bomb before Isabelle could drop another verbal dagger.

“Wow,” she said, flatly. “Sibling trauma at its finest.”, she clapped her hands once. “If I’d known I was stepping into a Greek tragedy, I would’ve brought popcorn and wine.”

Isabelle raised a brow. “You are?”

“The woman who made sure this wedding didn’t implode two hours ago when your caterer dropped the vegetarian entrée list into the fountain.”

That was a good shot! The tension eased slightly.

“Risa Shaw. Planner. And an amateur peacemaker. Hi!"

Garrett raised a brow at her amused.

Risa smiled. “I can handle chefs, media, and Damien Ashwood’s mood swings. I can definitely handle you.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and turned to her, visibly annoyed.

“Lovely. Now walk away. This is between siblings.”

“Yes, I gathered that from the emotional shrapnel flying in every direction.”

Garrett barked a laugh, Isabelle glared, but Risa didn’t flinch.

“Look,” Risa said, softening just enough to be heard, “I don’t care about your grudges. I care that your sister is in a room, alone, while a thousand people are waiting for her to walk down the aisle including one very terrifying groom who hasn’t blinked in twelve minutes.”

“No offense,” Isabelle said, crossing her arms, “but this feels like a you problem.”

“Yes,” Risa agreed sweetly. “But it could be your moment.”

Isabelle's posture stiffened. (⁠´⁠⊙⁠ω⁠⊙⁠`⁠)⁠！

“What do you mean?” She asked with a little softness lacing her tone.

“I mean you’re the only one Scarlett might not expect. And right now? She doesn’t need comfort. She needs someone who will barge in and force her to breathe.”

“She won’t even open the door.”

“Then open it anyway. Be annoying. Be impossible. Be her sister. It’s the only job in this family no one else can do.”

A pause.

“She hates when I speak.”

“Then whisper.”

A long pause.

But then, to Garrett’s surprise, she relented.

Isabelle rolled her eyes flicking her hair. “You’re very smug for someone in kitten heels.”

“And you’re very scared for someone in designer eyeliner.”

Garrett blinked dumbfounded. (⁠☉⁠｡⁠☉⁠)⁠!

Isabelle’s mouth twitched.

“Fine. But if she’s crying, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.”

“And if she throws something-”

“You duck. You must be good at that.”

Isabelle huffed.

Garrett blinked stunned, coming back to reality. "Get her to the hallway behind the doors, I will be waiting there with Dad."

Isabelle just nodded and finally walked off, heels echoing like thunder across the marble.

“You got her to go. How... did you do that?”

“Simple,” Risa said, checking her watch. “Don’t fight a queen. Just speak her language.”

For a second, Garrett forgot to speak.

"That’s… terrifying."

“I’m not proud of a lot of things in life,” Risa said, scribbling on her clipboard, “but I once coordinated a billionaire’s wedding and got his three ex-wives into the same photo. Nothing scares me now.”

“You might be the first person she’s ever listened to.”

“Correction, she tolerated me. Big difference."

"Still you actually handled that headache without getting an headache. That is like a miracle for me."

She looked up at him, grinning.

“You should see what I do to late florists.”

He chuckled. “Scarlett’s lucky to have you here.”

“Everyone’s lucky to have me here,” Risa said brightly, “Especially your family.”

Garrett chuckled. Then paused. “... Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Risa replied. “We still have one bride hiding, one possibly dangerous groom, and a thousand overly curious guests. Ask me again when no one’s crying and the cake is still upright.”

He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning either.

“I’ll buy you a drink later,” he said.

“You will,” Risa replied and walked off.. “And it better be strong.”

Garrett watched her go, something new flickering behind his usual scowl.

...****************...

Thanks for reading (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)!

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