💍The man who had me naked in his hotel suite thirty-six hours ago is now peeling my fiancé Carter Blake's fingers from my waist.

And just one hour ago, that same man became my “uncle”.😐

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"She told you to let go," Adrian says.

He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. Carter's hand drops under the pressure of Adrian's grip, and three conversations die around us at once.

A hotel security guard starts toward us, sees Adrian, and stops without being told.

Carter straightens his tuxedo jacket as if that can restore the dignity he lost when he ignored me the first two times.

"We were dancing." His smile has all the warmth of an invoice. "Ivy's being sensitive. Vanessa warned me she can be difficult."

My mother appears at his shoulder in a sweep of champagne silk.

Of course she heard that. She can hear a sponsor becoming unhappy from three rooms away.

"What happened?" she asks, looking at Carter first.

Not me. Never me first.

"Nothing happened," I say. "Because I stopped it."

Her eyes flick to the guests pretending not to watch us. "Ivy, please. Carter's family paid for half this reception."

There it is. The price tag hanging from my neck.

Carter reaches for me again, more careful this time. "Let's not make a scene."

Adrian steps between us.

Last night, those shoulders were bare beneath my hands. Now they're inside a black tuxedo tailored so perfectly that he looks less like a wedding guest and more like the man who owns the hotel.

He turns his head just enough to look at me. His expression gives away nothing, but I remember exactly how that mouth felt against my skin.

"Do you want to dance with him?" he asks.

The question cuts through every other voice.

"No."

Adrian faces Carter again. "Then the dance is over."

Carter laughs. "Your brother married her mother an hour ago. That makes her your fucking niece, you sick bastard." His eyes drop to Adrian's hand on me. "Now get your hands off what's mine."

My mother's face drains of color.

Adrian doesn't move.

"She was never yours." Adrian's grip tightens around Carter's wrist. "Touch her again, and I'll break every finger you put on her."

Thirty-six hours earlier

"Carter Blake will be sitting beside you tomorrow night."

My mother says it while studying herself in a mirror framed by enough white roses to fund my tuition for a semester.

I keep working on the seating chart spread across the desk in her hotel suite. "Then I should probably move the emergency exit closer."

"I'm serious, Ivy."

"So am I. Fire codes matter."

Vanessa Hart turns from the mirror. At fifty-two, my mother has the kind of beauty that requires a team but looks effortless online. Her honey-blonde hair falls in perfect waves over the robe embroidered with Future Mrs. Mercer. A diamond necklace rests against her throat, borrowed from a jeweler whose name appears twice on the wedding website I designed.

This is her fourth wedding and the first one with a gift suite.

My mother built her career by surviving three divorces in public. She turned heartbreak into a podcast, a book, a line of journals, and a social following full of women who call her brave. Now she is marrying Graham Mercer beneath a floral arch provided by Bloom Theory, drinking champagne supplied by Laurent House, and spending her honeymoon at a resort she has promised to mention six times.

She calls it sharing her happiness.

I call it invoicing the fairy tale.

"Carter is an excellent match," she says. "His father owns Blake Hospitality."

"You told me he was in private equity."

"The family has diverse interests."

"Does Carter have any interests of his own?"

Her mouth tightens. "This attitude is exactly why I worry about you."

I move a place card three seats to the left. It is safer than answering.

Mom crosses the room and plants one manicured finger on Carter Blake's name. She has positioned him beside me and across from his parents, which means this is not dinner. It is an interview with centerpieces.

"His father made the rehearsal dinner possible," she says. "The least you can do is make Carter feel welcome."

"The least I can do is nothing. I'm very talented at it."

"You haven't even met him."

"Neither have you. You met his last name."

Her reflection goes still in the mirror.

I know that look. It is the private face behind the woman who tells millions of followers that healthy families communicate with compassion.

"You are almost twenty-five," she says. "You still live in my house, your freelance work barely pays your car payment, and I am covering your final semester. You don't have the luxury of dismissing every opportunity because it doesn't arrive exactly the way you imagined."

The words land where she intends them to.

I stare at the seating chart so she won't see it.

For the past six months, I have designed her wedding invitations, sponsor deck, website, menus, monogram, and enough social graphics to wallpaper the ballroom. She promised to pay me when the final sponsor money cleared.

Every time I ask, the money is almost there.

"My work paid for the look of this wedding," I say.

"Your work contributed. Don't exaggerate."

"Did you tell Blake Hospitality that? Or did you let them think you created everything yourself?"

Her eyes flash. "Do not start this two days before my wedding."

"You started it when you assigned me a date on the seating chart."

"I assigned you a chair. What happens after that is up to you." She softens her voice without softening anything else. "Just give him a chance. Smile. Ask about his work. And wear the black dress tomorrow. It's more flattering through the waist."