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

He looked at me, eyes steady. “Then don’t,” he said. “Even when it’s expensive.”

The expense showed up in the form of my mother, two days later, calling with a new tone—sweet, careful, strategic.

“Sophia,” she began, “the Wellingtons heard about the memo situation. They’re worried. They asked if Daniel could… reassure someone. Maybe make a call.”

I stared at the wall of my apartment, at the framed print I’d bought because I liked the colors. “A call,” I repeated.

“To smooth things over,” she said quickly. “You know how people talk. It could help you too. If someone important says you’re trustworthy.”

I felt something in me go cold and clear. “Mom,” I said, “do you hear yourself?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” she insisted.

“No,” I said. “You’re trying to protect your access. You’re trying to use Daniel like a tool and me like the handle.”

Her breathing hitched. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” I replied. “And I’m done.”

My mother’s voice sharpened. “After everything we did at the wedding—”

“After everything you did at the wedding,” I corrected. “You don’t get credit for fixing damage you caused.”

A long silence.