Silver Fox Valentine

Chapter 1

Zoe

I dash between my bedroom and bathroom, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors as I double-check every detail for tonight's charity gala. The list on my phone keeps growing instead of shrinking. Centerpieces confirmed. Catering team briefed. Lighting design approved.

My apartment, though small, reflects the organized chaos of my mind—modern furnishings in bold colors offset by strategic pops of metallics. The teal velvet couch I splurged on last year anchors the living room, while rose gold accents catch the afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. A designer dress bag hangs on my closet door, waiting for its moment, the black silk within worth every penny of my last bonus.

"Where did I put that guest list?" I rifle through the stack of papers on my white lacquered desk, pushing aside vendor contracts and seating charts. This gala needs to be perfect. Half of New Orleans' elite will be there, and one mishap could tank my reputation as an event coordinator faster than a soufflé in an earthquake. The Preservation Society doesn't give second chances, especially not to up-and-coming planners like me.

My phone buzzes. Mom's face lights up the screen, her perfectly coiffed hair and expectant smile making my stomach do a little flip. Of course she'd call now, when I'm drowning in last-minute details.

"Hi, Mom—" I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder while sorting through RSVPs, praying she won't launch into another lecture about settling down and finding a nice doctor to marry.

"Zoe, darling. Just checking you're still attending tonight's event? The Beaumonts mentioned they'll be there with their son Charles. You remember Charles from the country club, don't you? Such a successful young surgeon."

I roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck that way. "Yes, Mom. I organized it, remember? The entire event is literally my responsibility."

"Well, it's a perfect opportunity to network. And Charles is such a nice young man. Harvard educated, comes from an excellent family—"

"Mom, I'm not looking to date right now. I'm focused on my career." The words come out automatically, a well-rehearsed line I've delivered at least a hundred times this year alone.

"Sweetheart, you're twenty-seven. Your sister was married at twenty-five, and she's already expecting her second—"

"And I'm running my own successful business." I check my watch, anxiety spiking at the time. Four hours until showtime, and my to-do list is still a mile long. "Which reminds me, I need to head to the venue. The florist is delivering any minute."

"Just promise me you'll make an effort tonight. Wear that blue dress I bought you—it really highlights your figure. And maybe do something special with your hair—"

"Got to go, Mom. Love you!" I end the call before she can launch into another comparison with my perfect sister.

The silence feels heavy. I grab my emergency kit—safety pins, double-sided tape, mini sewing kit—and stuff it into my work bag. Tonight isn't about finding a husband. It's about proving I can turn the historic Garland Hotel's ballroom into an enchanted garden that'll have everyone talking for months.

Amidst all the chaos, I take a moment to sit down and compose myself. My heart's beating so wildly, I think it's about to burst out of my chest. Sitting down, I smooth out my dress over my knees and sigh. My phone falls beside me, my lock screen showing me standing in front of one of many hotels in New Orleans.

My hand runs through my hair. Two years. That's how long it's been since Oliver, my last real relationship, walked out of my life with barely a backward glance.

"I just need space to focus on my residency," he'd said, as if three years together meant nothing. As if the apartment we'd been planning to share, the future we'd mapped out over late-night Thai food and Sunday brunches, could be erased with a single conversation.

The worst part? Mom had loved him. The perfect medical student from a good family—everything she wanted for me. I trace the pattern on one of my throw pillows, remembering how I'd thrown myself into work after he left, booking event after event until exhaustion was my only companion at night.

Dating since then has been... well, a series of disasters. There was David, the investment banker who couldn't understand why I wouldn't drop everything to attend his company functions. Then came James, who seemed perfect until I discovered his idea of "exclusive" meant he was exclusively dating three other women.

My fingers drift to the delicate gold chain around my neck—a gift I bought myself after Oliver, a reminder that I don't need anyone else to make me whole. But sometimes, late at night when the city quiets down and I'm alone in this apartment, I wonder if Mom's right. If I'm letting my career become an excuse to avoid putting my heart on the line again.

The thing is, watching someone walk away with pieces of your future tucked in their pocket changes you. Makes you build walls, check exit routes, keep one foot out the door. These days, I'm more comfortable orchestrating other people's perfect moments than risking my own.

A notification pops up on my phone—the florist is fifteen minutes out. I straighten my shoulders, push those memories back where they belong. Tonight isn't about my messy love life or Mom's marriage agenda. It's about creating magic for my clients, the kind that makes people believe in perfect moments again.

Even if I don't anymore.

Without hesitation, I stand up from my couch, gather my things, and hurry down to my car. The drive to the hotel is almost automatic—my body works, but my mind is elsewhere. Hell, my mind is in the stars, thinking of all the ways this event can go wrong if I don't have my A-game tonight.

I burst through the Garland Hotel's service entrance, my tablet already in hand, heart racing with that familiar pre-event adrenaline rush. The historic ballroom stretches before me, its crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across marble floors, each facet telling a story of celebrations past. My heels echo through the space as I direct the setup crew, the sharp clicks a steady rhythm to our rushed symphony of preparation.

"Those tables need to be exactly thirty-six inches apart. The gold chargers go on the left side of the centerpiece markers." I tap my screen, checking off items, my finger moving with practiced precision down the endless list. "Where are my ice sculptures? They should have been here ten minutes ago."

"Just arrived, Ms. Mitchell." Carlos, my go-to setup manager, points toward the loading dock, already anticipating my next three requests like the professional he is.

"Perfect. Position them by the grand staircase, but wait for my signal before unwrapping. We need the timing just right to prevent melting." I scan the room again, mentally calculating the temperature and humidity levels. One wrong move with those sculptures and hours of planning goes down the drain—literally.

The room transforms with each passing minute. Champagne-colored linens cascade over round tables while delicate orchid arrangements create intimate spaces within the grandeur. Every detail matters—the angle of each chair, the precise fold of each napkin, the strategic placement of candles to create the perfect ambiance.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it all, the familiar dance of coordination that makes everything else fade away. No mother's expectations, no failed relationships, just the pure satisfaction of watching my vision come to life.

"The lighting crew needs your approval on the garden effect," my assistant calls out.

I glance at my watch—right on schedule. This event has to be flawless. It's my stepping stone to the Valentine's gala at the DuPont, the crown jewel of New Orleans' social season. Landing that contract wasn't easy, but if I nail these lead-up events, especially tonight's, I'll prove I can handle high-profile clients. The DuPont gala could put my name on every society matron's speed dial.

"Let's see those lights," I call out, moving toward the control panel. One event at a time. That's how empires are built.

Still, as much as I throw myself in my work, my mother's words echo in my head as I adjust the height of a floral arrangement. "You're twenty-seven, Zoe." As if my age is some kind of expiration date stamped across my forehead.

"These roses need to be two inches higher." I demonstrate the adjustment to the florist, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the nagging voice in my mind.

The truth is, I've seen what happens when you rush into relationships just to meet someone else's timeline. My college roommate married the first guy who proposed—now she's paying alimony and living back with her parents. My cousin settled for "good enough" and spends her days posting passive-aggressive quotes about marriage on social media.

"Ms. Mitchell, can you tell me one more time where do you want the ice sculpture?" Carlos interrupts my thoughts.

I point to the designated spot, but my mind drifts again. What if Mom's right, though? What if I'm using work as a shield? It's easier to obsess over centerpiece heights and lighting cues than admit I'm terrified of ending up alone.

"The votives need to be precisely six inches from the edge." I demonstrate the placement, my hands steady even as my thoughts scatter. "And make sure they're all facing the same direction."

The problem isn't finding dates—New Orleans is full of eligible men. The problem is finding someone who understands that my phone might ring at 2 AM because a bride is having a crisis with the venue. Someone who won't resent that I spend weekends orchestrating other people's perfect moments instead of creating my own.

I adjust my earpiece, fielding questions from three different vendors while checking the time. Every minute counts now. But between directing staff and coordinating deliveries, Mom's words keep sneaking in like uninvited guests: "Make an effort tonight."

As if effort is the issue. As if I haven't tried. As if I haven't put myself out there only to discover that most men see my career as a cute hobby I'll give up once I find "the one."

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. The room is coming together beautifully, even if my love life isn't.