His voice quivered with barely contained rage.
“If these vendors don’t reinstate their services by noon tomorrow, I’m contacting my attorney. You might think you’re being clever, but this is criminal interference with contracts.”
I almost laughed at the irony. He would be suing his own daughter’s company.
The sound died in my throat as another call came through.
Mom this time.
“Sweetheart?” she began, her voice honeyed with false concern. “How could you ruin your sister’s special day? What kind of person does that to family? We raised you better than this.”
I ended the message midway through her guilt trip and stared at the Seattle skyline. The morning fog had lifted, revealing a clarity I wished I felt inside.
My assistant, Amber, appeared in the doorway with a stack of pink message slips.
“Three calls from the Hendersons. They’re friends of your parents. And Mr. Blackwell from the Downtown Business Association wants to know if there’s any truth to the rumors about vendor troubles with the Wade wedding.”
“They’ve been busy,” I murmured, accepting the messages.
“There’s more.”
Amber handed me the Morning Society page from the Seattle Times, folded to highlight a small item.
Sources report a mysterious vendor exodus from the upcoming Wade-Pembroke nuptials, leaving Seattle society wondering what calamity has befallen one of the season’s most anticipated celebrations.
I set the paper down carefully, as if it might burn my fingertips.
“I rescheduled your investor meeting for next week,” Amber added. “Jessica thought you might need the time to handle this situation.”
“Thank you.”
Alone again, I canceled two more meetings, knowing I couldn’t focus while my phone kept lighting up with accusations.
The morning dissolved into damage control, fielding calls from business associates who had received frantic messages from my parents painting me as vindictive and unstable.
Later that evening, I sat cross-legged on my living room floor, laptop balanced on my knees, the lights of the city spread below my penthouse windows like fallen stars. I had ordered takeout that sat untouched beside me as I scrolled through an old family video from Celeste’s sixteenth birthday.
“Eleanor planned everything,” Mom said to Aunt Judith in the video, her arm around Celeste. “She’s always been good at little parties.”
Little parties.
The same year, I had coordinated a charity gala for eight hundred people that raised over two million dollars.
I paused the video and opened my email.
There, in black and white, were three years of correspondence with extended family in which my parents had systematically minimized my career.
Eleanor’s venue business is doing well, Dad had written to Uncle Robert last Christmas, never mentioning that “well” meant expanding into a fourth state with revenue approaching nine figures.
My phone pinged with a notification.
Celeste had posted on Instagram: a moody black-and-white photo of her engagement ring with the caption, Sometimes the people who should love you the most are the ones who hurt you deepest. Grateful for those who stand by me while selfish people destroy others’ happiness for personal gain.
The comments were filled with heart emojis and supportive messages asking what happened.
She didn’t name me, but she didn’t need to.
I opened a new document and began typing.
Every email. Every text. Every conversation where I was dismissed or diminished. Every dollar spent on Celeste’s wedding. Every vendor contract.
Every thread of evidence formed a timeline of a pattern I had allowed for too long.
The next morning, Amber walked into my office carrying a brown paper bag that released the aroma of cinnamon and butter when she set it on my desk.
“Your favorite from Meredith’s Bakery,” she said, pulling out a warm morning bun. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t,” I admitted, accepting the offering with grateful hands.
Amber leaned against my desk, her expression softening.
“For what it’s worth, I’d have uninvited them from my wedding years ago.”
