The grand ballroom of the St. Regis was a sensory overload of constructed perfection. The air was thick with the heavy, sweet scent of thousands of imported white lilies, mingling with the low, elegant hum of a live string quartet playing Mozart. It was the physical manifestation of my new husband’s family legacy—a world of old money, quiet power, and ruthless social climbing.
I stood near the ice sculpture, a glass of champagne trembling slightly in my hand. I should have been floating on the ethereal joy of my wedding day, but instead, my stomach was tied in a knot of perpetual anxiety. I felt less like a bride and more like an imposter who had snuck past the velvet rope.
My eyes constantly sought out my mother, Sarah. She was a soft-spoken, fiercely hardworking woman who had taken extra shifts at the diner for three years just to buy the Jimmy Choo shoes hidden beneath my gown. Tonight, she stood near the edge of the dance floor, painfully conspicuous in her modest, off-the-rack navy dress amidst a sea of bespoke silk, haute couture, and dripping diamonds.
