Chapter 9: What Do You Want?

My first day at Belladonna began with a woman handing me a clipboard and asking what I thought.

I almost looked behind me.

Elena Park noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I asked whether the training stations should be arranged by service category or by workflow.”

I stared at the floor plan.

No one had followed the question with, Cleo already has an idea.

No one had told me I was easygoing enough not to care.

I walked closer.

“Workflow,” I said. “If trainees move through the stations in the same order they would handle a bride, we can spot timing problems before they’re in front of clients.”

Elena considered it.

“Show me.”

For the next hour, we moved tables.

By ten thirty, I had changed the entire orientation layout.

At eleven, Elena used it.

At noon, she told me it worked better.

That was all.

No celebration. No dramatic praise.

Just evidence that my opinion could enter a room, be considered, and matter.

I went to the restroom and cried for three minutes.

Then I washed my face and returned to work.

Belladonna’s Boston studio occupied the second floor of an old brick building in Back Bay. The front half was polished and beautiful—arched mirrors, cream walls, soft lighting. The back half was still being assembled.

Boxes were everywhere.

Product inventory had been entered incorrectly.

Two training kits were missing.

The booking software had duplicate appointments.

I loved it.

Problems had edges.

They could be named.

They could be solved.

People were different.

For years, I had kept trying to solve relationships by making myself smaller.

Here, when something went wrong, Elena wanted me to say so.

By Wednesday, I had built a new inventory sheet.

By Thursday, I had reorganized the emergency bridal kits.

On Friday, Elena stood beside my desk holding a coffee.

“You turned down this job three months ago.”

I looked up. “Yes.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Yes.”

She took a sip. “And now?”

“Now I’m glad you hadn’t filled it.”

She smiled. “So am I.”

My phone buzzed.

Zia Rosa.

I had told her she could contact me whenever she wanted, with one condition.

No surprise calls from Lachlan. No passing him my address. No updates I hadn’t requested.

She had agreed immediately.

Her message contained a photograph of the old Staten Island kitchen.

Zio Marco was standing on a chair replacing a light fixture.

“He says this is easy. Pray for us.”

I laughed out loud.

Elena glanced over.

“Family?”

“My aunt.”

“Good news?”

“For once.”

I sent Zia Rosa a laughing emoji.

Then another message arrived.

“I need to tell you something before you hear it elsewhere. Cleo came by yesterday.”

My smile faded.

“What did she want?”

“To know where you are.”

I stared at the screen.

Zia continued.

“I told her you were safe and that was all she needed to know. She got angry. She says people at Lachlan’s company are blaming her for the wedding.”

I typed: “Are they?”

Her answer took longer.

“Some. There are photos circulating.”

I knew which photos.

I had seen nothing online because I had deleted every social media app from my phone on the plane.

It wasn’t discipline.

It was self-preservation.

I didn’t want to know whether strangers thought I was pathetic, cruel, jealous, brave, or insane.

They had not lived my relationship.

Their verdict couldn’t return the years I had spent inside it.

I wrote: “That’s not my problem.”

The words looked harsh.

I almost deleted them.

Then I sent them.

That evening, I bought myself a lamp.

It was ridiculous how long the decision took.

The store had three versions.

One white. One brass. One pale green.

I stood in the aisle for nearly ten minutes trying to imagine what everyone else would prefer.

Then I realized there was no everyone else.

I chose the green one.

At home, I set it beside the couch.

It didn’t match anything.

I loved it.

In New York, Lachlan’s week was going badly.

I learned most of that later.

At the time, all I knew was that he had stopped trying to call from new numbers after the third day.

What I didn’t know was that his cofounder, Adrian, had called him into the conference room Monday morning.

The same conference room where I had overheard him promising Cleo the Saturday that belonged to me.

Adrian placed a tablet on the table.

“Before we discuss anything else, tell me whether this is going to become a company issue.”

On the screen was the bridal boutique photograph.

Lachlan’s face hardened.

“It has nothing to do with the company.”

“Cleo works here.”

“She’s a project coordinator.”

“Because you hired her.”

“She was qualified.”

Adrian gave him a long look.

“Was she?”

That question landed harder than Lachlan expected.

Cleo had a communications degree and six months of internship experience.

The coordinator role had originally required two years.

Lachlan had told HR to be flexible.

At the time, he’d framed it as helping my sister.

For my sake.

He had said those exact words to me.

Now, sitting across from his cofounder, he heard how convenient they sounded.

Adrian continued.

“People don’t care who you date. They do care about favoritism when the person in question is on payroll.”

“I’m not dating Cleo.”

“Then you need boundaries that make that obvious.”

Lachlan looked away.

By Tuesday, Cleo had been moved off two projects directly supervised by him.

She cried.

He nearly reversed the decision.

Then he remembered my voice.

Maybe not. But it’s what you rewarded.

He let the reassignment stand.

That afternoon, Cleo followed him into his office.

“This is because of Zinnia.”

“No. This is because Adrian is right.”

“She leaves you at the altar and I’m the one being punished?”

“You’re not being punished.”

“You barely speak to me now.”

Lachlan looked at her.

For years, if Cleo called, he answered.

If she needed help, he went.

If she wanted something, he found a reason it was harmless.

He had told himself that closeness was innocent because she was my sister.

But innocence didn’t automatically make something respectful.

“I need space.”

Her eyes filled.

The sight used to trigger an immediate response in him.

Fix it.

Today, he forced himself to remain seated.

“Why?”

“Because I should have created some a long time ago.”

Cleo stared at him as though he had betrayed her.

Maybe, in her version of the world, he had.

On Saturday morning, I woke before sunrise.

For a few seconds, I didn’t know why.

Then I remembered.

Rockaway Beach.

That was the morning Lachlan and I had planned to watch the sunrise.

The plan he canceled for Cleo’s manicure.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Boston was still dark.

I could have rolled over.

Instead, I got dressed.

I bought coffee from a twenty-four-hour shop and took the train toward the waterfront.

It wasn’t Rockaway.

There was no promise attached to it.

I found a bench near the harbor and sat alone while the sky slowly changed.

Gray first. Then lavender. Then pale gold.

I had imagined watching a sunrise with Lachlan so many times that doing it without him should have felt like losing something.

Instead, it felt peaceful.

My phone buzzed at 6:02.

An email.

Subject: Final Wedding Vendor Reconciliation.

The planner had copied both Lachlan and me.

There were deposits to settle. Refunds. Nonrefundable balances. A final amount due.

I read through the spreadsheet.

Months ago, I would have handled all of it automatically.

I knew which cards had paid which deposits.

I knew the cancellation clauses.

I knew the floral minimum and photography retainer.

I knew everything because I had organized everything.

Then I reached the line for the invitation redesign.

An extra charge.

Cleo’s choice.

The makeup team.

Extra charge.

Cleo’s booking.

Music arrangement.

Extra charge.

I almost laughed.

I replied only to the planner.

“Please separate all charges made or approved by me from later modifications approved by other parties. I will settle only the expenses contractually assigned to me. Please direct the remainder to the person who authorized each change.”

The planner responded an hour later.

“Understood.”

At nine, Lachlan emailed.

“Zinnia, can we please discuss the wedding expenses directly?”

I stared at the message.

Then another came.

“I’m not asking you to come back. I just want to handle this fairly.”

That was new.

No demand. No accusation. No “stop embarrassing us.”

I still didn’t answer.

Fairness didn’t require access to me.

The contracts would decide the money.

That afternoon, Elena asked me to sit in on a consultation with a bride named Sofia.

Sofia was twenty-six and visibly overwhelmed.

Her mother wanted a dramatic updo.

Her future mother-in-law wanted extensions.

Her maid of honor kept showing her photographs.

Sofia sat in the chair getting quieter and quieter.

I recognized that silence.

The stylist asked, “What do you think?”

Everyone else started answering.

I raised a hand.

“Actually, can we give Sofia the room for five minutes?”

Her mother blinked.

Sofia looked at me.

Then she whispered, “Please.”

Once everyone stepped outside, I crouched beside her chair.

“What do you want?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know anymore.”

“That’s okay.”

I handed her a tissue.

“We can start with what you don’t want.”

Twenty minutes later, she chose a simple low bun and natural makeup.

When her family returned, she told them herself.

I watched her shoulders straighten.

Afterward, Elena found me cleaning brushes.

“You handled that well.”

“I knew what it felt like.”

She didn’t ask for details.

She only nodded.

That night, I wrote four words on a sticky note and placed it beside my green lamp.

What do you want?

It was a simple question.

I had spent most of my life waiting for someone else to ask it.

Now I was beginning to understand that I could ask myself.