In a city wrapped in rain and whispers, where neon signs blinked like restless eyes and nights stretched longer than days, Estella lived quietly between silence and survival. Her world was small, tucked inside a creaky old building two stories above the hum of passing cars. It smelled of jasmine tea and dried roses—the scent of dreams she crafted for others but never claimed for herself.
Orphaned young, Estella had grown up within the faded walls of The Roselight Home for Girls, cared for by Mrs. Lee—whose gentle sternness and heart woven from poetry shaped Estella's steady hands and softer aspirations.
"You have magic in your fingers, child," Mrs. Lee would say, brushing her aged fingers through Estella's curls. "But you give it away too easily."
Mrs. Lee was the closest thing to family Estella had ever known. Though the world rarely cared for girls like her—quiet, modest, with secondhand shoes and first-rate dreams—she carved out a humble living as a wedding decorator. She painted strangers' fairytales in lace and lilies, draped halls in silks the color of sunsets, and made sure no bride walked beneath a bare arch.
Her life was humble. Honest. Predictable.
Until one rain-slicked evening, the world knocked at her door wearing a tailored suit and secrets in its pocket.
He—Arthur Langford—introduced himself simply when he stepped into her studio—half office, half storeroom—rain still beading on his coat.
"My employer would like to retain your services," he said, placing a heavy envelope on her desk with theatrical precision. "The event is in six days. Budget: unlimited."
Estella frowned. "That's incredibly short notice. I usually need—"
Arthur held up a hand. "Double your rate," he said, voice calm. "Mr. Valtore prefers things done quickly. Quietly."
The envelope looked like temptation itself.
"Who's the groom?" she asked, trying to steady her voice.
"Mr. Cedric Valtore."
Cedric Valtore. Estella didn't know the name, but it sounded like trouble. Expensive trouble.
She swallowed. Mrs. Lee's orphanage fund was behind on rent, and Leaky pipes were leaking again. She needed the money.
She looked back at Arthur. His expression betrayed nothing, but something in his eyes—flickering respect? Interest?—made her nod.
"I'm in."
Three days later…
Estella arrived at the Valtore estate, its wrought-iron gates yawning open. The mansion sat atop a hill like a cathedral carved of stone and secrets. Inside, the hush felt intentional; she hadn't laid eyes on either Cedric or the bride, Stella—only Arthur, who had become her intermediary.
Estella met Arthur in the grand hall near marble columns.
"Order," he said simply. "Cedric wants opulence. Florals everywhere. Candles low. No visible wires."
Estella glanced around. "That's… broad."
"He'll inspect tonight," Arthur said. "And he expects it perfect." Their eyes met—insistent—and Estella returned the look. "Consider me motivated."
Each day, she worked under Arthur's watchful eye. He directed her layout, helped adjust ribbons, and sometimes lingered when she brushed stray petals off the aisle. Conversation flowed between them, easy and unexpectedly warm, the kind that began with shared exhaustion over tulle and ended with soft laughter about spilled candle wax on marble.
Meanwhile, Cedric and Stella remained ghosts in the edges of her awareness. She heard Cedric's orders through Arthur—tight deadlines, sudden changes, demands for more luxury. "Add more velvet draping," she'd hear. Or, "He wants a midnight-blue accent now." No direct interaction. No thanks. No eye contact. Just rising demands through a middleman.
By the fourth day, Estella's irritation simmered. She muttered under her breath when Arthur told her Cedric had requested flaming orchids at the altar—at dawn. Arthur raised an eyebrow, silently offering sympathy. She shot back, "He should say it to my face."
Arthur touched her arm. "He's… involved in other matters."
She narrowed her eyes. "So I get the orders. You get the face time. And he stays in shadow."
Arthur's gaze flickered—something unspoken passed between them.
There was chemistry—a quiet kind that hummed in the shared spaces of command and creation, in hushed whispers over spacing of centerpieces, in the way he noticed when she paused, exhausted, and handed her a glass of tea.
And still, Cedric remained distant, a slow-growing annoyance in the back of her mind. His energy poured into expectations, not conversation. She resented the swelling demands from an invisible groom. She resented the fact that all of it—this delicate beauty she wove—was for people who barely met her gaze.
But every night, when Arthur lingered by the entrance, quietly praising her vision, something in her deflated a little less.
Estella still didn't know Cedric. She barely knew Stella. But she knew Arthur more than she'd expected—and maybe, just maybe, that was how her walking into this tangled world would begin to change everything.