My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

My mother’s face flushed so fast it looked painful. “There was a mix-up,” she said quickly.

“A mix-up,” Daniel echoed, tone mild, but the words landed like a gavel. “About whether Sophia should sit with her own family?”

Clare’s eyes filled, and she looked at the floor.

“She’s family,” Daniel continued. “So she should be upfront. And probably in photos too, right?”

The silence stretched.

Mrs. Wellington’s mouth tightened. She leaned toward her husband as if to whisper, but Daniel heard anyway.

“She doesn’t fit the image,” she murmured.

Daniel’s expression changed—not anger exactly, something colder and clearer. “The image,” he repeated. “I see.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and straightened his jacket. “My parents send their best wishes,” he said calmly. “My mother couldn’t attend, but she asked me to invite you all to a private reception at the White House to celebrate the marriage.”

The room froze.

My father made a noise that might have been a cough. Mr. Wellington’s eyes widened like he was calculating immediate social value.

“That includes Sophia’s family,” Daniel added, his gaze steady on my mother. “We can’t celebrate without the bride’s sister.”