Emma Rosewood smoothed her thrift-store dress for what felt like the hundredth time as she stepped into the Grandmore Hotel’s crystal ballroom.

Under the soft light of her little apartment, the champagne-colored fabric had looked elegant. Here—surrounded by designer gowns, glittering jewelry, and suits tailored within an inch of their lives—it looked like a decent napkin someone had ironed.

Khloe, her best friend, had begged her to come as her plus-one. Then promptly vanished the second they arrived, chasing after the wedding photographer in a flurry of squeals and hairspray.

Emma clutched the little place card in her hand.

Table 7.

Of course.

In the back corner. Half-hidden behind an enormous floral arrangement that looked like it had eaten half the florist’s stock. The overflow table. The place where nobody really knew where to put you, so they just… put you there.

She slid into her seat, smoothing her skirt. The rest of the table filled quickly with strangers chatting about beach houses, golf clubs, and ski trips. Emma picked at her salad and tried not to eavesdrop, tried not to look like a charity case someone had forgotten to take home.

She was just wondering how soon she could leave without looking rude when a low voice brushed her ear.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked up.

For a second, the room blurred.

The man beside her was… ridiculous. Broad-shouldered in a perfectly cut black tux, dark hair styled just messily enough to look accidental, and eyes—green, sharp, amused—that seemed to actually see her.

“No. Please,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair. “Go ahead.”

He sat with easy confidence, the kind that came from knowing you belonged anywhere. Emma caught the faintest hint of expensive cologne and something warmer beneath it.

“Sebastian Blackwood,” he said, offering his hand. “And you are?”

“Emma Rosewood,” she said, taking it.

A small electric jolt ran up her arm at the contact.

“I’m here with my friend Khloe. I think she’s… somewhere near the photo booth,” she added dryly.

“Ah,” Sebastian chuckled. “Classic wedding abandonment. I sympathize. I’m the best man and currently hiding from the bride’s grandmother. She’s decided I’m her personal matchmaking mission.”

Emma laughed, surprised at how quickly the tension slipped from her shoulders. “Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no idea. I’ve seen baby photos.” His smile deepened. “So, Emma Rosewood, what brings you to this circus besides a disappearing friend?”

“Khloe works with the bride. I’m just the plus one who doesn’t know anyone.”

“Well,” Sebastian said, lifting his champagne glass, “you know me now. To new friendships… and surviving wedding receptions.”

She clinked her glass against his.

“Surviving,” she agreed.

She didn’t mean to talk so much.

But there was something about Sebastian—about the way he listened—that made her forget herself.

He asked about her job at the flower shop and didn’t just nod politely. When she talked about color theory, symbolism, and how people used flowers to say things they didn’t have the words for, his eyes lit up.

“You create beauty for a living,” he said. “That’s… incredible.”

“Most people just think it’s putting stems in water,” she admitted.

“Most people are idiots,” he replied easily. “Tell me more.”

She noticed he was vague about his own work.

“Business consulting,” he said at one point, shrugging. “Helping companies grow. Nothing exciting.”

Right.

When the band shifted into slow songs, couples spilled onto the dance floor, wrapped in fairy lights and soft strings.

Emma tried not to stare—not at the way the bride glowed, not at the way people leaned into each other like they’d been made to fit that way.

“Would you like to dance?” Sebastian asked suddenly.

She blinked. “I should warn you. I’m… not great.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, grinning as he stood and held out his hand, “I am.”

She let him lead her out.

The moment his arm settled around her waist, the world narrowed to the space between them. He guided her as if it required no effort at all. Within a minute, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be nervous.

“You’re full of surprises, Emma Rosewood,” he murmured near her ear.

“So are you,” she managed.

As the music faded, she noticed the looks.

People staring. Whispering. Not at her. At him.

Recognition. Curiosity. A touch of… awe?

They went back to the table.

“Sebastian,” she said slowly, “what do you actually do?”

He paused, fingers still wrapped around hers.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Try me.”

He studied her for a beat, then said, “I run a few companies. Tech. Real estate. Bits of other things.”

“Are you… someone?” she asked. “Like, famous?”

“Would it matter if I were?” he countered.

She thought about it.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I guess it would depend on what kind of famous.”

“The kind that makes people stop seeing you,” he said quietly. “And start seeing what they think you can give them.”

He walked her to the ballroom doors at the end of the night.

“I should find Khloe,” she said reluctantly.

“Of course,” he said. He didn’t move.

“Emma,” he added, “I’d like to see you again. Outside of all this.”

Her heart stumbled.

“I’d like that too,” she said.

He pulled out his phone, the newest model she’d only ever seen in ads.

“May I?” he asked.

She gave him her number. Their fingers brushed as he gave the phone back.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

As she walked away, she felt his gaze lingering on her. When she glanced back once, he was still there, looking at her like she was a puzzle he actually wanted to solve.

For the first time in a long time, Emma didn’t feel like background noise in someone else’s story.

She felt like the start of something.

He called at exactly ten the next morning.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep better than I did?”

“I don’t think I slept at all,” she confessed.

“Good,” he chuckled. “Then we’re even. Have lunch with me?”

“Today?” she asked, glancing at the clock. “I’d love to, but Saturdays are crazy at the shop.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Six.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casually.”

He hung up before she could overthink it.

All day, she caught herself smiling while tying ribbons and wrapping stems. Lily, her coworker, noticed.

“You’re glowing,” Lily said, leaning against the counter. “Who is he?”

“Someone I met last night,” Emma replied. “Someone… complicated.”

At seven, a sleek black car pulled up in front of Rosewood Flowers.

Emma locked the door, smoothed her sundress, and stepped outside.

The driver got out.

“Miss Rosewood?” he asked. “I’m Thomas. Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you.”

Driver.

Right.

She slid into the back seat.

Sebastian smiled at her, casual in jeans and a button-down. The car interior could’ve been a hotel suite.

“You have a driver,” she said.

“I do,” he agreed. “Is that… a problem?”

“I’m just trying to figure out who you really are,” she said.

He took her hand.

“I’m the same person who sat with you at table seven,” he said. “Everything else is… window dressing.”

They drove into a part of the city she’d never had reason to enter. Towers of glass and steel soared around them. They pulled into a private garage beneath one of them.

“This is where I live,” Sebastian said, as they stepped into a private elevator.

The doors opened directly into a penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city laid out like a galaxy beneath them. Everything gleamed.

“Sebastian,” Emma whispered, “what exactly do you do?”

He poured wine with an ease she recognized from the restaurant.

“I told you. I run companies,” he said. He hesitated. “I also… own some. Buildings. A few.”

“A few,” she repeated.

He set the glass in her hand.

“My last name is Blackwood,” he said quietly. “As in Blackwood Technologies. Blackwood Industries. Blackwood Real Estate. My family has… been fortunate.”

She stared at him.

“You’re one of those Blackwoods.”

“The number is just a number, Emma,” he said. “What matters is this: last night with you was the first time in years I felt like just… Sebastian. Not a logo.”

She went to the window, swallowed.

“This is why people stared,” she murmured. “Why the waiters were so… extra.”

“Yes,” he said. “And why I didn’t lead with it. I wanted you to meet me first. Not my net worth.”

“I’m a florist,” she blurted. “I live in a studio apartment above a noisy coffee shop. I buy my dresses secondhand.”

“And?” he asked.

“We live in completely different worlds.”

“Do we?” he said softly. “Because sitting at that ugly little table in the corner, talking about peonies and symbolism—for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.”

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

“Sebastian, you missed dinner,” a woman’s voice called. “Mother—”

She stopped.

“Oh,” she said, seeing Emma. “You must be Emma.”

Emma turned.

An auburn-haired woman with the same green eyes stood there. Impeccable. Elegant.

“My sister, Victoria,” Sebastian said.

“So you’re the reason my brother skipped three meetings today,” Victoria said, smiling. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Emma flushed. “I… I should probably go.”

“No,” Sebastian said immediately. “Please stay.”

“Mother is already human hurricane levels of upset,” Victoria said dryly. “But frankly, this is the first time in years I’ve seen him look like himself. I’m on your side.”

Emma looked between them.

“This is a lot,” she said quietly. “I need time to think.”

“Take all the time you need,” Sebastian said. “Just… don’t disappear.”

Three days.

Three days of Googling “Sebastian Blackwood” and trying not to faint at the numbers attached to his name.

Three days of remembering him laughing at her pizza place, dancing with her under market string lights, listening when she talked about color and meaning.

Three days before she texted:

I want to see you. But I need to meet you, not the headlines.

Then come away with me, he replied.
Just us. No noise. No cameras.

The cabin was small, simple, and perfect.

No signal. No Wi-Fi. No polished marble.

Just wood, a quiet lake, and the way his shoulders dropped there like he’d been carrying the world and finally set it down.

They cooked badly and ate well. Hiked during the day. Talked late into the night.

He told her about growing up as a Blackwood. About feeling like he’d been born into a job interview. About the pressure to be “the next great something.”

“I never wanted the spotlight,” he admitted, toes in the cold lake water as the sky turned pink. “I just liked solving problems. It… got out of hand.”

“Do you regret it?” she asked quietly.

“The money?” he said. “Sometimes the noise. The suspicion. The loneliness? Yes. Until…”

He looked at her.

“Until what?” she asked.

“Until I met you,” he said. “You make me feel like I’m allowed to be a man, not a balance sheet.”

That night, under a sky full of stars, Emma realized she was in very serious trouble.

She wasn’t just infatuated with a mysterious stranger anymore.

She was falling in love with Sebastian Blackwood.

The person.

He took her to a gala next.

She’d sworn she’d never set foot somewhere like that. Then there she was, standing in front of a mirror, wearing a midnight-blue gown a stylist had brought to her tiny apartment.

“You look…” Sebastian stopped when he saw her. “You’re going to ruin me,” he said softly.

They walked into the Metropolitan Museum under chandeliers and flashbulbs. People stared. Whispers followed.

He never once let go of her hand.

He introduced her to everyone as “Emma, the woman I’ve been telling you about.” He never once tried to upgrade her story for their benefit. When people asked what she did, she told them she was a florist. He smiled proudly every time.

“You’re different with her,” Victoria said later, watching him watch Emma from across the room.

“Different how?” he asked.

“Happy,” she said simply. “Like yourself.”

“And am I good for her?” Victoria added.

The question lodged under his ribs and stayed there.

Eventually, he had to see her world.

He spent a Saturday at Rosewood Flowers, covered in pollen and twine. He knocked over two buckets and miswrapped three bouquets. He also made a shy little girl laugh so hard she snorted because he let her design her own “superhero flower bouquet.”

He sat on a back stool and watched Emma work, watched how the older customers trusted her, how the younger ones adored her. How she made problems small by listening.

“I like your life,” he told her as they locked up.

“It’s messy,” she warned.

“So am I,” he said.

That night, sitting on a crate outside a pizza place, sharing a greasy slice while an old arcade machine beeped inside, Emma looked at him and thought:

This is the real version.

Not the man on magazine covers.

The one with tomato sauce on his thumb and worry in his eyes when she told him business was slow at the shop.

Six months after the night they met, he took her back to the cabin.

The dock was covered in fairy lights and white roses.

“Emma Rosewood,” he said, dropping to one knee as the sky burned orange behind him. “Six months ago, I was bored and half-asleep at someone else’s wedding. Then you walked in. And everything stopped being background noise.”

She started to cry before he even opened the box.

“You make me want to be the man you think I am,” he said. “You make me believe in a version of my life that isn’t just profit and loss. Will you marry me? Not my name. Not my companies. Me.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. A hundred times, yes.”

A year later, she walked down the aisle of the same chapel where she’d once sat alone at table seven, feeling invisible.

Now she wasn’t in the back corner.

She was in the center.

Victoria stood at her side as maid of honor. Lily and the flower shop crew filled the front row, crying unashamedly over their bouquets.

“You are my greatest adventure,” Sebastian said during his vows, voice rough.

“My safe harbor and my exciting unknown. You taught me that love isn’t finding someone who fits your world, it’s building a new world together.”

“You made me believe I was worth noticing,” Emma replied, tears on her cheeks. “Worth loving. Worth fighting for. You didn’t rescue me from my life. You took my hand and walked into it with me.”

When they kissed, she thought of the shy girl in the thrift-store dress who’d sat in the corner at a wedding and tried not to be seen.

That girl had been wrong.

She wasn’t forgettable.

She was just waiting for someone who saw her clearly enough to stay.

Emma and Sebastian Blackwood left the chapel hand in hand.

They weren’t pretending their differences didn’t exist. They weren’t trying to drag each other fully into one world or the other.

They were building a bridge between them.

Between penthouses and walk-up apartments. Between black-tie galas and flower buckets. Between headlines and handwritten notes.

And in the end, the girl who’d once felt invisible at table seven became impossible to ignore—

Not because she changed for anyone.

But because she finally chose to believe she was worth being seen.