Leo looked up, his brow furrowed. “Dad? Why can’t Grandma sit with us? She’s family.”

Robert looked pained. He ran a hand through his hair. “Mom, we set up a special spot for you. It’s quieter. More private. Actually… it’s just through the service doors. In the kitchen annex. The staff will bring you the prime rib before anyone else gets served.”

I felt a coldness spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was the chill of irrelevance.

“The kitchen?” I asked, my voice steady, though my heart was breaking.

“It’s for your comfort,” Tiffany interjected, signaling a waiter with a sharp snap of her manicured fingers. “Please escort Mrs. Vance and her grandson to the staff dining area. Ensure they stay… out of the way.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an eviction.

I looked at my son. I had raised him alone after his father—my handler—died in a botched extraction in Berlin. I had paid for his Ivy League education with a pension that he believed came from the Post Office, but actually came from the Central Intelligence Agency. I had taken a bullet for this country, shielded diplomats from shrapnel, and negotiated with warlords. But I couldn’t negotiate a seat at my own son’s wedding.