The Billionaire's Reluctant Partner.

hquake shaking everything apart, or a fire turning memories into dust. The smell of burnt roses filled the air as I stood still in the Grand Astoria ballroom, my hands tightly balled

go, if you asked me what failure and disaster entailed, I might have pulled up one of those ridiculous definitions from the dictionary again but now... now I knew better. Because sometimes, disaster is quieter, more insidious. It arrives in whispers behind your back, in the cold realization of a dwindling bank account, in the sharp, condemning headlines of a morning newspaper. Disaster is your name trending on social media for all the wrong reasons. Disaster is watching the empire you built with blood, sweat, and sleepless nights crumble in real-time. I used to think I understood failure. I thought I had met rock bottom the day I walked out of my marriage with nothing but my pride and a suitcase. But I was wrong. That wasn't rock bottom. That was just the prelude. This-this was rock bottom. And it sure as hell sucked. I stood in the middle of my office, gripping my phone so tightly I thought it might crack. I had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to stop and salvage the situation but nothing-absolutely nothing was working. The disaster at the Kensington wedding had spread like wildfire. Every major outlet had picked up the story, and the damage to my company was worse than I had imagined. "Event mogul Naomi Lancaster's catastrophic failure-ruined wedding, lawsuit, and PR disaster!" The headline was splashed across every social media platform, accompanied by grainy footage of the mayhem. The viral video of the floral arrangement catching fire had been slowed down, edited, and even set to dramatic music. I had officially become a joke. I slumped behind my desk, staring at the endless stream of emails on my laptop. Each one was another blow: cancellations, contracts severed, vendors pulling out. Everything I had built was crumbling right before my eyes and j couldn't even do anything to stop it. My assistant, Claire, was hovering near the door, her usual bright demeanor nowhere to be seen. Instead, she wore the look of someone who had just watched a ship sink and realized they were still onboard. "The investors pulled out," she whispered, confirming my worst fear. I closed my eyes and exhaled sharply. "All of them?" "All of them." I forced my hands to unclench, setting my phone down on my desk with deliberate control. The event planning business I had spent years building was hanging by a thread-no, that was too optimistic. It had already snapped. And all because of one wedding. One high-profile, extravagant, stupid wedding. The Sterling-Kensington wedding was supposed to be my masterpiece, a crowning jewel in my career. Every high society family had their eyes on it. I had spared no expense, no detail overlooked. And yet, in the blink of an eye, everything had gone to hell. The floral arrangements had arrived dead. The cake-God, the cake-was dropped by the catering staff minutes before the reception right on Mrs. Kensington's $10,000 custom gown. The bride's $50,000 custom dress had been ruined in an incident I still couldn't fully comprehend involving red wine and a clumsy w