“You never asked about my personal life,” I replied, not sharp, just factual. “You stopped being interested years ago.”
She inhaled shakily, like she’d just realized the floor could disappear. “The Wellingtons are losing their minds. They’re setting up checkpoints. They’re searching bags. Guests are being turned away until they go through metal detectors. They’re threatening to cancel the wedding. You need to get here now.”
“I thought you wanted me to arrive late and sit in the back,” I said, letting the words land where they belonged.
“That was before,” she snapped, then softened immediately into desperation. “Please. Just get here.”
I took my time.
It wasn’t spite. It was control. For once, I got to decide how I entered a room that had always been arranged around everyone else.
I went inside, swapped my navy dress for something I’d never worn around my family: a deep green formal dress that fit perfectly, elegant without being loud. I’d bought it for a state dinner and kept it tucked away like a secret. I pinned my hair up. Applied makeup carefully. Not to impress the Wellingtons. Not to compete with Clare. Just to remind myself that I wasn’t a mistake to be hidden.
The Wellington estate looked like a movie set—long gravel drive, manicured hedges, white tent visible in the distance, a stone fountain catching sunlight. Except it was also, unmistakably, a security zone. Black SUVs lined one side of the drive. Agents with earpieces scanned the perimeter. Local police directed cars into a makeshift checkpoint area.
At the gate, a Secret Service agent stepped forward and held up a hand. “ID, please.”
I handed it over. He glanced down at his list, then spoke into his radio. “Miss Harrison is here.”
The word Harrison felt strange, like a name that belonged to someone simpler. He looked back at me. “You’re cleared. Agent Martinez will escort you to the family holding area.”
“Family holding area?” I repeated.
He didn’t smile. “Yes, ma’am.”