“It becomes mine when it hurts you,” he said. “I’m coming to the wedding as your date.”
“Daniel—”
“The Secret Service needs to coordinate with local security anyway if I’m going to be in the area,” he cut in. “And you should be in the photos. You should be celebrated as family.”
“This is going to cause a scene,” I said, because that was the thing my family feared most: attention they didn’t control.
“Good,” Daniel replied, and I could hear a smile that wasn’t entirely gentle. “See you Friday.”
He hung up before I could argue myself into acceptance.
Friday afternoon, I drove to my parents’ house in Connecticut, passing trees that were beginning to turn, the air crisp enough to make everything look sharper. My childhood neighborhood was exactly as I remembered—trim lawns, flagpoles, the kind of quiet that felt like a warning. My mother opened the door with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Sophia, good, you’re here,” she said, already shifting her body like she was blocking the entrance behind her. “Listen about tomorrow. We think it’s best if you arrive after the ceremony starts. Sit in the back. We don’t want any awkwardness with photos or the receiving line.”