The sound of the shattering glass seemed to echo endlessly through the grand ballroom. The ambient chatter, the clinking of silver against porcelain, the soft jazz playing from the corner—everything ceased. Three hundred guests sat frozen in a tableau of shock, their eyes darting between my sister, whose mouth was slightly open in a mask of pale horror, and the tall, silver-haired man standing near the head table.

“No,” I repeated, my voice steady and unyielding. “I will not order the lilies. I will not cancel the olive branches. And Monsieur Laurent will not step foot near my crew. If you wish to revoke our credentials, Your Grace, you may do so. But you will have to explain to Princess Elara why the empty cathedral on her wedding day smells like damp stone instead of the enchanted forest she commissioned. We will begin the rigging in one hour. If your security attempts to stop us, Mr. Vance’s legal team will file a breach of contract suit before dinner.”

I turned on my heel, my flat sandals clicking sharply against the marble. “Julian. Let’s go.”

Julian fell into step beside me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “God, you are magnificent when you’re angry,” he murmured as we walked out into the blinding sunlight.

“She’s bluffing,” I said, though my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “She doesn’t have the authority to override the Princess. But she’s going to make this build a nightmare. Laurent will try to find a safety violation to shut us down.”

“Then we make sure we are flawless,” Julian replied, pulling out his phone. “I’ll have my personal security team stationed at the doors of the cathedral. Nobody gets in without a Carter Petals badge. Nobody.”

The next forty-eight hours were a grueling test of endurance. The interior of the royal cathedral was a cavern of ancient stone, beautiful but logistically terrifying. We were working with rare, imported silver olive branches from Greece, interwoven with thousands of delicate white ranunculus and trailing jasmine. The centerpiece was a massive, floating archway that would frame the altar, suspended entirely by tension wires so thin they were practically invisible.

We worked through the night, fueled by strong espresso and sheer adrenaline. Maya was a force of nature, coordinating a team of forty florists on soaring hydraulic lifts, while I meticulously checked every moisture pod and tension node. True to my prediction, Monsieur Laurent hovered on the periphery, accompanied by a safety inspector he had bribed, desperately looking for a flaw. They checked the weight limits, the fire retardant sprays, the structural integrity of the stone columns we anchored to. They found nothing. My engineering was airtight.

But the Dowager Duchess was not a woman who accepted defeat gracefully. If she couldn’t attack my work, she decided to attack my character.

It happened on the evening of the royal rehearsal dinner. The event was held at the exclusive Monte-Carlo Casino, an opulent affair dripping with diamonds and political maneuvering. Julian and I were invited as honored guests of the Princess. I wore a custom emerald-green silk gown that Julian had surprised me with, my hair pinned back with a single, real silver-olive leaf cast in platinum.

We were standing on the terrace, chatting amiably with Princess Elara, who was thrilled with the progress photos I had shown her of the cathedral. The ocean breeze was cool, the jazz band was playing a soft melody, and for a moment, I allowed myself to relax.

Then, the flash of a camera shattered the peace.

A man in a rumpled suit pushed past the security perimeter, holding a digital recorder like a weapon. He was trailed by the Dowager Duchess, whose face wore a mask of triumphant, aristocratic smugness.

“Emily Carter!” the man shouted, his thick British accent cutting through the elegant chatter. The terrace fell silent. Every royal, diplomat, and billionaire turned to look.

Julian immediately stepped in front of me, his body rigid, blocking the man’s path. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?” Julian demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“Rupert Giles, Daily Mail,” the reporter sneered, holding up his press badge. “And I’m here because the public has a right to know that the royal family has hired a fraud to design this wedding.”

Princess Elara stepped forward, her eyes flashing with royal fury. “Security! Remove this man at once.”

“Your Highness, wait until you hear the truth,” the Dowager Duchess interjected smoothly, feigning concern. “Mr. Giles approached me earlier today with some deeply disturbing allegations. I felt it was my duty to bring it to light before you walked down the aisle.”

The reporter looked around, soaking in the attention of the elite crowd. “We received a tip from a highly credible source in America. A former senior director at Vance Luxury Group. She provided us with sworn statements and digital records proving that Emily Carter did not design the award-winning floral installations for the International Botanical Summit or the Sterling Gala. Her sister, Vanessa Carter, was the true visionary. Emily is merely a disgruntled assistant who seduced the CEO into firing her sister and stealing the credit.”

The sheer audacity of the lie hit me like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs. Vanessa. Even an ocean away, even entirely disgraced, her venom had managed to reach me. She must have found a tabloid sleaze willing to pay for a scandalous scoop about a royal wedding vendor, twisting the reality of her embezzlement conviction into a story of corporate victimization.

Whispers broke out across the terrace. Eyes darted toward me, filled with suspicion and judgment. The old, familiar weight of public humiliation threatened to drag me under. I felt a cold sweat prickle the back of my neck. I was back at the reception hall in Nashville. I was the embarrassment. I was the joke.

I felt Julian’s hand grip mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, anchoring me to the present. He didn’t look angry; he looked lethal.

“Rupert Giles,” Julian said, his voice carrying the calm, absolute authority of a man who owned the room. “Are you aware of the libel laws in the principality of Monaco? Or the fact that Vance Luxury Group retains the most aggressive defamation attorneys on the continent?”