“No,” I said firmly, my voice steadier than I felt. “Please keep all billing information under my name. I’m the one managing the finances for this event.”
“Of course. I’ll make a note in the file. Thank you for clarifying.”
After I hung up, I sat very still on my terrace, the July sun beating down, the sounds of the city rising from sixteen floors below. They were trying to erase me from my own event. I opened my laptop and checked my email, finding messages from vendors I didn’t recognize—the photographer asking about timeline adjustments, the florist confirming changes to the bouquet design, the caterer asking about dietary restrictions. All of them addressed to Avery and Taylor. None to me.
I pulled out the folder labeled “Sophie’s Wedding” and reviewed every contract I’d signed, every receipt, every payment confirmation. Every single one bore my name, my signature, my account numbers. That’s when I called Martin Hayes, my late husband’s best friend and our longtime attorney.
“Amelia,” he answered warmly. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?”