The grand ballroom of the Fairmont had been transformed into a suffocatingly lavish floral wonderland. Cascading arrangements of white orchids and imported roses dripped from the crystal chandeliers. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, roasting prime rib, and old money. It was exactly the kind of over-the-top spectacle my mother lived for.

I approached the usher to find my seating assignment. He scanned the heavy parchment list, his brow furrowing slightly. “Miss Campbell… Ah. We have you seated at Table Nineteen.”

Table 19. I glanced across the sprawling room. The main family table was situated directly in front of the sweeping dance floor, elevated on a slight dais. Table 19 was shoved into the darkest, furthest corner of the room, practically leaning against the kitchen’s swinging service doors. I was seated with distant, elderly relatives and my mother’s former college roommates.

I nodded politely and made my way through the crowd. I hadn’t taken ten steps before the ambush began.

“Meredith! My goodness, you actually showed up,” my Aunt Vivian crowed, stepping into my path with a flute of champagne. Her eyes immediately darted to the empty space beside me. “And alone, I see. How… brave of you.”

“Hello, Aunt Vivian,” I said, my voice perfectly level.

“Your mother told us you were too busy with your little government paperwork to attend the rehearsal dinner,” she continued, her voice loud enough to attract the attention of nearby guests. “It’s such a shame you couldn’t find a plus-one. Did you even try the dating apps, dear? I hear they do wonders for women your age.”

“I am quite content, thank you,” I replied smoothly, stepping around her.

I navigated toward my table, but my cousin Tiffany—Allison’s perpetually bitter maid of honor—intercepted me. She performed a theatrical air-kiss that intentionally missed my cheeks by an inch.

“Meredith! Look at you,” Tiffany purred, raking her eyes up and down my platinum silk gown. “Is that a polyester blend? You always were so good at finding sensible, affordable things. Allison was terrified you were going to show up in a pantsuit.”

“It’s silk, Tiffany,” I said softly.

“Right. Well, try to look happy,” she whispered, her smile turning brittle. “The Wellingtons are a very important family. Allison is marrying into real power today. Try not to embarrass us by sitting in the corner looking miserable.”

Before I could respond, the orchestral music swelled into a triumphant crescendo. The heavy mahogany doors swung open, and the crowd erupted into applause.

Allison made her grand entrance on the arm of her new husband, Bradford. She looked undeniably stunning in a custom Vera Wang gown with a cathedral-length train that required two attendants to manage. My father walked closely behind them, his chest puffed out with a pride I had never, not once, seen directed at me. He looked at Allison as if she had personally hung the stars in the sky.

My mother, resplendent in a pale blue designer gown, caught my eye from across the room. She didn’t smile. She gave me a tiny, sharp shake of her head—a silent warning to stay exactly where I was.

Dinner proceeded exactly as I expected. I sat in my isolated corner, politely cutting my steak and making small talk with a nearly deaf great-uncle who kept asking if I was the catering manager. From a distance, I watched my family holding court. They toasted, they laughed, they posed for photographers. They did not look in my direction once.

During the speeches, the Best Man joked about how Bradford was “trading up” by marrying the Campbell family’s absolute golden child. My father gave a booming, twenty-minute speech about Allison’s perfection, emphasizing that she had “never once been a disappointment” to the family name.

I sipped my sparkling water, checking my phone under the table.

Nathan: Landed. In the car. ETA 15 minutes. How bad is it?

Me: Typical. They put me by the kitchen.

Nathan: They are going to regret that. I love you.

I smiled softly at the screen. The warmth of his text was a shield against the coldness of the room. I slipped the phone back into my clutch and decided to stretch my legs. I stood up and walked toward the edge of the dance floor to get a better view of the ice sculptures.

That was my first mistake.

I didn’t see Allison watching me from the head table. I didn’t see the brief, malicious whisper she shared with Tiffany. And I certainly didn’t see the waiter moving rapidly toward my blind spot, carrying a massive silver tray loaded with twelve brimming crystal glasses of vintage, blood-red Bordeaux wine.