The Billionaire's Reluctant Partner.

Naomi's POV Disaster. The English dictionary defined disaster as a sudden event that causes great damage or loss. Some might say it was like a huge storm destroying a city, an earthquake shaking everything apart, or a fire turning memories into dust. The smell of burnt roses filled the air as I stood still in the Grand Astoria ballroom, my hands tightly balled into fists. The event that was meant to boost my company's reputation-a grand wedding between a rich media heiress and a tech tycoon's son-had turned into chaos. Or should I say... disaster? I stared in shock as my team rushed around, trying to fix the mess. Fancy white and gold flowers were scattered on the marble floor, and spilled champagne sparkled under the big chandeliers. Guests whispered behind their gloved hands, their shocked voices growing louder until I felt chills run down my spine. Across the room, the bride was sitting on the edge of a chaise lounge, sobbing into her thousand-dollar veil while her furious mother yelled at a team of waiters, and my stomach sank even deeper. My lungs tightened. This wasn't just a bad night. This was the worst night of my career. I blinked once and then twice, somehow wishing that this was a nightmare. Because that was the only suitable word for everything happening right now. A nightmare and a complete, unmitigated disaster. I stumbled slightly as a wave of dizziness hit me, making my knees go weak. I put my hand on my forehead, trying to hold back the nausea that was about to overwhelm me. Claire rushed toward me, her normally smooth bob wild with stress. "Naomi, it's bad." She barely paused to catch her breath before launching into rapid-fire damage control. "The fire department is still outside. Someone posted a video of the groomsmen brawl-it already has over twenty thousand views. And the New York Chronicle is here." The Chronicle. My heart dropped into my stomach. If they got a headline out of this, I might as well set fire to my entire career myself. Yep, I might actually do that and then throw myself off a cliff. "This wasn't our fault,' I said, but it felt empty as I spoke." Wasn't it? Claire winced. "It doesn't matter, the client wants blood." A cold chill swept through me. Mrs. Kensington. I hardly had time to prepare before she approached, moving like a storm in designer heels. "This," she seethed angrily, waving her manicured hand, 'is unacceptable and a disgrace." I squared my shoulders, meeting her cold gaze. "Mrs. Kensington, I-" "You what?" She cut me off, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "You ruined my daughter's wedding. Do you even know the shame you brought on my family? The guests are calling it a-" she spat the next word like poison-"circus." I struggled to keep my voice steady and calm. "I know this is upsetting, but-" "No," she interrupted sharply. "You don't get it. If you did, you wouldn't be here trying to save your pathetic reputation." The words hit harder than they should have. "I trusted you." Her voice dropped lower, colder. "And you failed." My throat tightened, but I made myself keep a neutral look. "I accept full responsibility, and I'll do everything I can to fix this." Her lip curled. "You can't make this right." Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Then she delivered the final blow. "You are finished in this industry, Ms. Hayes." And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her words cutting deeper than any knife and hanging over me like a death sentence. And it's official, guys. I am screwed... Literally. ***** (Two Days Later) A week ago, if you asked me what failure and disaster entailed, I might have pulled up one of those ridiculous definitions from the dictionary again but now... now I knew better. Because sometimes, disaster is quieter, more insidious. It arrives in whispers behind your back, in the cold realization of a dwindling bank account, in the sharp, condemning headlines of a morning newspaper. Disaster is your name trending on social media for all the wrong reasons. Disaster is watching the empire you built with blood, sweat, and sleepless nights crumble in real-time. I used to think I understood failure. I thought I had met rock bottom the day I walked out of my marriage with nothing but my pride and a suitcase. But I was wrong. That wasn't rock bottom. That was just the prelude. This-this was rock bottom. And it sure as hell sucked. I stood in the middle of my office, gripping my phone so tightly I thought it might crack. I had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to stop and salvage the situation but nothing-absolutely nothing was working. The disaster at the Kensington wedding had spread like wildfire. Every major outlet had picked up the story, and the damage to my company was worse than I had imagined. "Event mogul Naomi Lancaster's catastrophic failure-ruined wedding, lawsuit, and PR disaster!" The headline was splashed across every social media platform, accompanied by grainy footage of the mayhem. The viral video of the floral arrangement catching fire had been slowed down, edited, and even set to dramatic music. I had officially become a joke. I slumped behind my desk, staring at the endless stream of emails on my laptop. Each one was another blow: cancellations, contracts severed, vendors pulling out. Everything I had built was crumbling right before my eyes and j couldn't even do anything to stop it. My assistant, Claire, was hovering near the door, her usual bright demeanor nowhere to be seen. Instead, she wore the look of someone who had just watched a ship sink and realized they were still onboard. "The investors pulled out," she whispered, confirming my worst fear. I closed my eyes and exhaled sharply. "All of them?" "All of them." I forced my hands to unclench, setting my phone down on my desk with deliberate control. The event planning business I had spent years building was hanging by a thread-no, that was too optimistic. It had already snapped. And all because of one wedding. One high-profile, extravagant, stupid wedding. The Sterling-Kensington wedding was supposed to be my masterpiece, a crowning jewel in my career. Every high society family had their eyes on it. I had spared no expense, no detail overlooked. And yet, in the blink of an eye, everything had gone to hell. The floral arrangements had arrived dead. The cake-God, the cake-was dropped by the catering staff minutes before the reception right on Mrs. Kensington's $10,000 custom gown. The bride's $50,000 custom dress had been ruined in an incident I still couldn't fully comprehend involving red wine and a clumsy waiter. And right in the middle of the reception, two groomsmen-one of whom was allegedly the bride's ex-got into a heated argument. Drunk and reckless, they threw punches, knocking over tables and sending champagne bottles crashing. Did I also mention that one of the decorative drapes caught fire from an open flame? A single spark quickly turning into a small blaze that set a floral centerpiece alight. While it was quickly put out, guests panicked, and someone called the fire department. I could still hear the bride's furious screams. The groom's mother fainted. The press had a field day. And the blame? The blame fell squarely on me. I was the event planner after all. My phone vibrated against the desk. Another notification. Another headline. Another article detailing my spectacular failure. I reached for the screen before I could even stop myself, already knowing what I'd see. "Naomi Lancaster: From Event Planning Prodigy to Disgraced Disaster" Bile rose in my throat. I had fought so hard to distance myself from my past-from being the naive girl who had once been a billionaire's wife, from being defined by my connection to Killian Royce. I had built this business with nothing but my talent, my drive, my refusal to be a footnote in a powerful man's story. And now? Now I was back in the headlines, my name dragged through the mud. "Naomi," Claire said hesitantly. "There's... more." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Of course, there is." "The landlord just called. If we don't pay this month's rent, he'll terminate the lease." I just stared at her, waiting for her to say she was just pulling my legs but she wasn't. The sound of my blood rushing filled my ears. My carefully managed life was falling apart and I needed money. Fast. The thought of calling my mother crossed my mind, but I shoved it away. Vivian Lancaster had never been a mother first. She was a woman of ambition, one who had once sold her daughter's happiness for financial security. I refused to run back to her, tail between my legs. There had to be a different solution. I sank into my chair, hiding my face in my hands. The silence lingered until Claire spoke up. "You could always... ask him." I lifted my head sharply. "No." Claire bit her lip. "Naomi, he's the only one who can help you with this." "No," I said again, my voice strong. She exhaled. "You know he's going to hear about this, right? It's only a matter of time before Killian sees these headlines." A chill went down my spine. Killian Royce. My ex-husband. The man I had loved and left. The man who, despite everything, still had the power to make or break me. I had spent years showing I didn't need him, that I wasn't merely his ex-wife. But the universe seemed to be mocking me now, pushing me back to the one person I promised never to depend on again. I wouldn't ask for his help. I couldn't. But deep down, I already knew. It was only a matter of time before Killian Royce came back into my life. And when he did, disaster would take on a whole new meaning.