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

“You earned it,” he said. “And for the record, you handled the press pressure better than half the people in this building.”

I read the letter twice, then looked up. “Thank you,” I said, and this time I didn’t feel the urge to downplay it.

That weekend, Clare invited me to dinner at her new place—an apartment in the city she and Ethan had chosen together, not the Wellington estate. Small, bright, imperfect. Real.
Ethan opened the door and looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure what version of me would show up.“Hey,” he said. “Come in.”

Clare had cooked, which was new. She used to hate cooking because our mother treated it like a performance sport. Now she served pasta like it was just… food.

During dinner, Ethan cleared his throat. “I talked to my parents,” he said, eyes on his plate. “About the wedding. About… everything.”

Clare’s hand stilled on her fork.

Ethan continued, voice awkward but sincere. “I told them they don’t get to treat Sophia like she’s optional. And they don’t get to treat Daniel like he’s a prize. And they don’t get to treat Clare like she’s a ladder.”

I felt my throat tighten.

“They didn’t take it well,” Ethan admitted. “But… I said it anyway.”