When I arrived at my sister’s wedding and gave my name, the staff looked confused. “Your name isn’t on the list,” they said. I called my sister to ask, and she sneered, “Did you really think you’d be invited?” So I left quietly and placed a gift on the table. Hours later, what she found inside made her call me nonstop—but I never answered.

My name is Myra Wells. I am twenty-eight years old, and six months ago, I flew three thousand miles from Los Angeles to Boston to attend my sister Victoria’s wedding. I did not have an invitation. I did not have a seat assignment. All I had was a one-way ticket, a dress the color of a bruised twilight, and a small, silver box tucked into my clutch.

The venue was the Grand Belmont Hotel, a place that smelled of old money, white lilies, and exclusion. Crystal chandeliers, the size of small cars, suspended from the ceiling, casting a fractured, golden light over the marble floors. A string quartet played Debussy near the entrance, the music floating over the heads of guests draped in silk and bespoke Italian wool.

I stood at the edge of the velvet rope, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I approached the reception table where two young women in severe black dresses presided over the guest list like gatekeepers to Olympus.