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.

She inhaled shakily, as if she had just realized the floor could disappear. “The Redcliffs are losing their minds because guests are being turned away until they go through metal detectors.”

“I thought you wanted me to arrive late and sit in the back,” I said, letting the words land.

“That was before,” she snapped, then softened into desperation. “Please, just get here.”

I took my time because for once, I got to decide how I entered a room. I went inside and swapped my navy dress for a deep green formal dress that I had bought for a state dinner.

The Redcliff estate looked like a movie set, except it was also unmistakably a security zone. Black SUVs lined the drive and agents with earpieces scanned the perimeter.

At the gate, a Secret Service agent stepped forward and held up a hand for my ID. He spoke into his radio, “Miss Miller is here,” and then told me I was cleared for an escort.

Agent Vance met me near the main house and guided me through side hallways past rooms filled with expensive silence. I caught glimpses of guests in pastel dresses whispering about the security checkpoints.