MT

The heel caught. I stumbled, arms flailing, and the heavy crystal centrepiece teetered — crashed to the floor with a sharp, deafening shatter. "Do you have any idea—" the event coordinator started, face blazing red, storming over. "That was custom! You’re a professional model — act like one!" "I know, I know — I’ll pay for it, every piece," I said, already backing away, cheeks burning. "Just… let me get out of here." I turned and hurried down the hallway — and slammed straight into someone solid. Hands came up to steady my elbows, firm and sure. Of course. Of course. I looked up. There he was. Marshall Mathers. Fifty-three, intense as ever, grey at the temples, eyes sharp and tired all at once. The man I kept crashing into every time my life fell apart. The man I swore I couldn’t stand. "You’ve got to be kidding me," he sighed, like this was the last thing he needed. "Again?" I pulled back, jaw tight. "Don’t act like I planned it. I’m leaving." "Leaving because you just took out half the decor?" He stepped closer, voice low, private. "What was it this time? Tripped over your own dress? Got distracted mid-pose?" "Heel slipped. The floor was polished," I muttered, brushing past him — but he shifted, blocking my path easy. "Every time I see you, something’s gone wrong. You always like this?" "I’m a model — things happen fast, people rush. And why do you even care?" I glared. "Last time we spoke you said I was nothing but chaos." "And you told me I was cold, stuck-up and impossible," he shot back, half-smirking like he remembered every word. "Funny how we keep ending up right here." My throat tightened all over again. "Yeah. Hilarious. My life’s a joke anyway. My ex-fiancé… Jude. Jude Bellingham. The one I was supposed to marry? He’s marrying my sister. Next month. Found their wedding invitations on my kitchen counter this morning." Silence settled — heavy and quiet. Marshall’s expression softened, that hard edge melting away. "Damn," he said quietly. "Tha