Page 96 of Worth the Fall

"Look!" she squeals, pointing to the table Becca has arranged. It's decorated with subtle sparkles and fresh flowers, place cards written in elegant script—even one for Felicity with Official Flower Princess beneath her name, because according to her, "flower girl" wasn't fancy enough for such an important occasion. My heart squeezes at the thoughtfulness.

Linda arrives with a gift bag full of spa supplies and her usual no-nonsense smile that can't quite hide how pleased she is to be included. Taylor brings a photo album she's secretly compiled of our friendship moments—nights out, office celebrations, impromptu dance parties in my living room. And Becca orchestrates everything with her usual flair, making sure everyone's glasses stay full and the conversation flows.

"To Mia," Becca raises her glass, and something in her voice makes my throat tight. "Who reminded us that sometimes the best families are the ones we choose for ourselves."

"And sometimes they come with extra sparkly flower petals," Felicity adds solemnly, making everyone laugh.

I look around the table at these women who've become my cornerstone—my village, my support system, my chosen family. No, it's not a traditional bachelorette party with matching sashes and embarrassing dares. It's better. It's exactly what I need.

Later, as we get our nails done (Felicity insisting that everyone needs at least one sparkly accent nail "to match the flower petals"), I catch my reflection in the salon mirror. I'm smiling, relaxed in a way I never managed during those carefully orchestrated couple dinners with Cameron's friends. These women know me—really know me. They've seen me ugly cry over case files and stress eat donuts during depositions. They've helped me navigate wedding planning chaos and late-night anxiety spirals. They love me, not despite my type A tendencies and workaholic nature, but because of them.

"You're thinking deep thoughts," Linda observes from the chair next to me. "Stop it. This is a relaxation zone."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Just feeling grateful."

"As you should," she says with that maternal authority that brooks no argument. "Now, are we doing matching pedicures or not? Because your flower girl has some very specific ideas about proper petal-coordinated toe art."

"Obviously matching," I say, watching as Felicity explains her vision to the bemused nail technician, complete with hand-drawn diagrams. "When has she ever not had specific ideas about ceremony aesthetics?"

"Like bonus mother, like daughter," Becca teases from my other side.

And she's right. Somewhere between color-coded wedding plans and flower girl protocol lessons, I found my place. My people. My family.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Today is one of those rare days where everything feels under control. My desk is neat—well, neat for me. My inbox is manageable. The Simmons account is running like a well-oiled machine, and for once, I feel like I’ve got this whole work-life balance thing figured out.

Even wedding planning has been relatively smooth lately, mostly because Miguel insists on being a human buffer between me and Felicity’s more… creative ideas. (The princess carriage? Officially vetoed, though not without a bit of sulking.)

And Miguel… he’s been perfect. Steady and supportive, despite insisting for weeks now that I move in with him. He’snot wrong—I practically live at his place anyway—but my lease doesn’t expire for a few months, and I convinced myself it made sense to wait.

I sip my coffee, glancing at my to-do list for the day. Everything’s checked off, and it’s not even lunchtime. I smile, feeling smug.

I’ve got this.

Then my phone rings.

I glance at the screen, frowning at the unknown number. Normally, I’d let it go to voicemail, but something tells me to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Steve from Moving On Movers," a cheerful voice chirps. "Just wanted to let you know we’re at your building and ready to get started!"

For a moment, my brain doesn’t compute. "I’m sorry, you’re where?"

"At your building," Steve repeats. "We’re here to move your stuff."

My heart drops. "Move my—oh my God!" I shoot up from my chair, nearly spilling my coffee all over my desk. "No, no, no, that’s not supposed to be—wait…" My voice trails off as the pieces snap into place.

I did schedule movers. A month ago. For today.

"Oh no," I whisper, clutching my forehead.

Steve is still talking, something about timing and parking permits, but I’m already scrambling to grab my bag and my coat. "I’ll—I’ll be there soon!" I blurt out, hanging up before he can respond.

I rush out of my office, narrowly avoiding a collision with Linda in the hallway.

"Whoa," she says, holding up her coffee cup as if to ward me off. "Where’s the fire?"

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