But Richard stood by the oak doors, pale and silent, studying the tips of his Italian leather shoes. He was a statue carved from cowardice.

“Patricia, please,” I managed, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steel myself. “The guests are arriving. The caterers are setting up.”

She laughed—a cold, mirthless sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Oh, darling, you really are naive. There won’t be a wedding. I fired the caterers an hour ago. I sent the band away. Your little charade ends here.”

My heart plummeted into my stomach. The months of planning. The late nights. The dreams of a family I never had. All of it, erased by a single, spiteful checkbook.

I remembered the lunch we’d had just weeks ago. An interrogation masquerading as a meal. She had asked about my family, her nose wrinkling when I mentioned my mother had passed and my father was estranged.