I held it together and accepted the wig, too stunned to respond. But when Caleb came home, I broke. Sitting on the counter, I told him everything through tears.

His jaw clenched, his face went pale, then red. “She told you to wear a wig? To hide yourself?”

I nodded, crying harder.

He paced like a caged animal. “She told you—the woman who fought for her life—to disguise herself like you’re some shameful secret? She thinks your bald head would ruin her pictures?”

Then he froze. His voice dropped, calm but sharp.

“Alright. If she wants a show of appearances, we’ll give her something she’ll never forget.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but I saw it in his eyes: she had gone too far.

The wedding was held at a lavish estate—chandeliers, endless flowers, a string quartet. The invitation said “semi-formal,” but half the guests looked like they were at the Oscars.