Rosalind’s voice came out strangled, thin with a panic she could not hide. “Bennett Prescott’s office just declined Marlowe’s reception. Do you have any idea what this does to her sponsorships? They’re threatening to pull out. I need you to call him. You know him.” I let the silence stretch, the way she always let hers stretch when she wanted me to squirm. Then I set down my coffee. “I do know him,” I said. “He and his wife RSVP’d to my wedding three days ago.”

The line went completely quiet. I could picture her face, the calculation finally catching up to her. “Your wedding,” she repeated slowly. “In the park.” I almost laughed. “Mother, where do you think Bennett Prescott is going that same afternoon? Where do you think half your ‘important’ guests are going?” She didn’t answer, because she had never once asked. She had assumed a public park and paper plates. She had never asked where we were actually getting married, and that single unasked question was about to cost her everything she thought she’d won. “You should sit down,” I said. “There’s something you never bothered to find out.”