Expired Love, After the Rain

As one of London's premier wedding planners, I have spent my career orchestrating "perfect moments" for others, yet I never seemed to find my own.

The ballroom at Claridge's was bathed in an opulent glow for my best friend Stella's wedding. The bridal bouquet sailed over the crowd. It brushed a young woman's fingertips, bounced once, and landed squarely in my arms.

In an instant, half of London's high society turned toward Ryan.

"Proposal! Proposal!" the crowd chanted over the rhythmic clink of champagne flutes. "Ryan, a sign like that is rare. Looks like we should prepare for the next big party!"

Ryan was nudged forward by the crowd. In his charcoal Savile Row suit, he still managed to look detached, as if the noise had nothing to do with him. As I held the flowers, the lingering scent of fresh roses filled the air. For one ridiculous second, I even wondered whether I should warn him not to crease his trousers if he knelt.

But he only smiled.

Then, with practised ease, he took the bouquet from my arms. Without the slightest hesitation, he turned and handed it to his assistant, Emily, who was standing nearby.

"She touched it first," he said, ruffling my hair with the same flawless tenderness I had endured for eight years. "Be good, Claire. Let's wait for the right time."

The attention followed the flowers as they moved away. I caught the flicker of triumph in Emily's eyes and quickly looked down, tracing the intricate patterns of the carpet while forcing a perfectly poised smile.

Ryan lived by schedules and efficiency, yet he never understood one simple truth: some chances, once missed, don't come with a "next time".

My own wedding is next Saturday. And he has been officially struck from the guest list.

After the reception, Stella was so incensed she nearly shattered her champagne flute in the lounge. "That Emily girl definitely calculated her position! I specifically arranged for the bouquet to land with you, the 'bride-to-be', to set the stage..."

"Stella," I interrupted softly, smoothing my skirt with practised composure, "it's your big day. Don't waste your energy on such a minor incident."

I knew better than anyone that Emily had been working hard to establish her presence beside Ryan for the past six months. Ryan frequently took her to high-profile social events under the guise of "training", even bringing her to a wedding as private as this one.

While Ryan chatted effortlessly with venture capital titans recently returned to London, Emily sat right next to him — the distance between them long since crossing the boundaries of a professional assistant.

She wasn't even supposed to be a bridesmaid; she was only a last-minute fill-in because the groom's side had an extra groomsman.

As the banquet ended and guests drifted into the London rain, Ryan finally approached me. "Ready to head back?"

He naturally took my handbag, his other hand habitually reaching for my shoulder. I shifted slightly, avoiding his touch.

"You've been drinking. I've called a driver."

The car glided into the rainy night. My face was a blur in the window — make-up flawless, yet unable to hide the exhaustion in my eyes.

"Today," he suddenly started, "it was Emily who touched the bouquet first, after all. The girl probably just wanted a bit of good luck. It's where it belongs now; don't take it to heart."

I didn't respond, watching the neon lights streak past. After a moment, he finally looked up from his phone. "Are you angry?"

He leaned in with that same patronising patience I'd heard for eight years. "Didn't we agree? Next time, I promise. Our wedding will be better than this; you can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?"

A dull ache spread through my chest. It was always like this — an empty promise delivered in a tender tone, followed by the assumption that the matter was settled.

"Ryan," I said, staring at his reflection in the glass.

"Yes?"

"Stella and I made a vow when we were kids," I said calmly. "Whoever married first, the other would follow within a week."

"We were supposed to wear bridesmaids' dresses we designed for each other and be the first to witness each other's happiness."

The car fell silent. His fingers, which had been absently rubbing the back of my neck, went still.

"You still take childhood jokes seriously?" He let out a dismissive laugh. "Plans can't keep up with changes. Hotels, dates, logistics... these things take six months, sometimes a year, to prepare. We'll plan it properly and give you something perfect. What's the rush?"

He offered no explanation for why he still refused to commit to me publicly. Instead, he retreated into the cold logic of "event planning".

The car pulled up to our apartment. Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt, seemingly satisfied that his words had smoothed things over. He leaned across, naturally reaching for a kiss.

I raised my hand, pressing it gently against his shoulder.

"I'm tired, Ryan."