“It becomes mine when it hurts you,” he said. “I’m coming to the wedding as your date.”
“Daniel—”
“The Secret Service needs to coordinate with local security anyway if I’m going to be in the area,” he cut in. “And you should be in the photos. You should be celebrated as family.”
“This is going to cause a scene,” I said, because that was the thing my family feared most: attention they didn’t control.
“Good,” Daniel replied, and I could hear a smile that wasn’t entirely gentle. “See you Friday.”
He hung up before I could argue myself into acceptance.
Friday afternoon, I drove to my parents’ house in Connecticut, passing trees that were beginning to turn, the air crisp enough to make everything look sharper. My childhood neighborhood was exactly as I remembered—trim lawns, flagpoles, the kind of quiet that felt like a warning. My mother opened the door with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Sophia, good, you’re here,” she said, already shifting her body like she was blocking the entrance behind her. “Listen about tomorrow. We think it’s best if you arrive after the ceremony starts. Sit in the back. We don’t want any awkwardness with photos or the receiving line.”
“Mom,” I said, keeping my voice level, “I’m her sister.”
“I know, honey,” she replied, as if I’d said something naive. “But Clare wants everything perfect. The Wellingtons are very particular about image.”
I stepped inside. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and nervous energy. A garment bag hung from the coat rack—my mother’s dress for the wedding, probably more expensive than my rent.
“What about the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.
“Oh,” she said, hesitating, then smoothing her tone. “That’s family only. Immediate family in the wedding party.”
“I’m immediate family,” I said.
“You’re not in the wedding party,” she replied, and the rest of the sentence stayed unspoken: therefore, you don’t count today.
That night, I ate takeout alone in my childhood bedroom while my family attended the rehearsal dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Through social media, I watched Clare post photos with the Wellingtons—everyone in crisp outfits, champagne flutes raised, smiles polished. My parents looked like they were auditioning for a better life.
I wasn’t in any of the pictures.
My phone buzzed with a text from Daniel.