The phone call that ended my brother’s wedding didn’t come from a hysterical bride or a cold-footed groom. It came from a clipboard-wielding intermediary named Victoria Hayes, a woman whose voice was usually as crisp as the linens at my five-star establishments.
“Miss Warren,” she began, her professional veneer cracking slightly at the edges. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that the family has canceled your invitation to the ceremony and reception.”
I sat in my office, the leather chair cool against my back, staring out at the Boston skyline. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. “I see,” I said, my voice steady despite the sudden, violent thumping of my heart against my ribs. “And the deposit? The sixty-five thousand dollars I wired to your agency six months ago?”
Victoria hesitated. I could hear the rustle of papers, perhaps a nervous shifting of weight. “They… the family has requested to retain the deposit. They intend to proceed with the venue booking and the catering package as planned. They simply feel your presence would not be… conducive to the atmosphere they wish to curate.”
A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t even anger, initially. It was the icy clarity of a business deal gone sour.
“Victoria,” I asked softly. “Do you know who I am?”
