“Tiffany, she’s my mother,” Robert whispered. His resistance was flimsy, like wet cardboard. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“She disrupts the narrative, Robert! The color palette is champagne, gold, and ivory. She is wearing… industrial blue.” She turned to me, her smile tightening into a rictus of fake warmth. “Eleanor, dear. The ballroom is terribly crowded. We’re expecting the Governor’s deputy, and the CEO of TechCorp is already seated. I know how your leg bothers you with the noise and the standing.”

I stood straighter, feeling the titanium pin in my leg ache, a familiar phantom. “My leg is fine, Tiffany. I can sit.”

“Not at the head table,” she snapped, dropping the pretense. “We can’t put you there. It’s for the… visuals. We have photographers from Vogue covering the reception.”