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 dating a man whose arrival required a presidential security sweep. Then the security team cleared the main hall.

Dating Christian Moore meant accepting details I couldn’t control, like agents and security protocols that slid into our lives like weather. We’d kept it quiet because he wanted a relationship not defined by his father’s office, and I wanted someone who saw me as more than an accessory.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied, and his voice sounded like relief. “I just got a call from the advance team because they are doing security clearance for a wedding in Annapolis this weekend.”

My stomach tightened at the news. “They called you?”

“They called because my name got flagged in a local request,” Christian said. “Penelope, were you planning to tell me you had a family event?”

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking at a single fork in the drying rack. “I didn’t think you’d want to come.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to go?” he asked.

“My family is complicated,” I said, staring at a scuff mark on the tile floor. “They don’t think I’m successful enough to be visible at my sister’s wedding.”

Silence followed, heavy and careful. “Visible?”