After I paid $77,000 for my brother’s wedding, he sent me to the wrong city in Italy “as a joke.” I landed in Naples while they were celebrating in Florence. The next morning, he texted: “LOL, I just didn’t want you there.” My mother added, “This is your fault.” I didn’t argue. I smiled… and sent her a gift—four feet tall, delivered by courier. She called me in tears: “Can I please pay you back?”

“Jesus Christ, Alyssa—”

“No,” I said. “Don’t say my name like I’m the disaster here.”

I heard him exhale through his teeth. He was somewhere with echo—garage, maybe, or stairwell. Hiding. Ethan never had important conversations in open spaces if he thought he might look bad in front of other people.

“Give it back.”

“Come get it.”

“Alyssa.”

“What?”

“You’re enjoying this.”

I looked at the envelope on my table. At his expensive, panicked life leaking paper.

“No,” I said, and it surprised me how true it was. “I’m understanding it.”

Silence.

Then, flatter: “Camille’s parents are involved now.”

Of course they were.

Wealthy families never simply felt things. They retained them.

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Ethan, I was sent alone to the wrong city in a foreign country in a dress your wife picked out for a wedding I paid for. You’re going to have to do better than rich in-laws and a stationery budget.”

He swore under his breath.

“Mom says you want a public apology.”

“I want the truth.”

“That will explode everything.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”