My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

Our firm has been contracted for the Millbrook Heritage Restoration Project, converting a Civil War-era textile mill into a community arts center. The foundation is funding the entire thing.

The client contact, Eleanor Whitmore, chair of the foundation. Garrett Whitmore’s mother.

I’ve been the lead architect on this project for six months. We’ve exchanged dozens of emails, three video calls. She knows my work, my design philosophy, my project timeline. She knows T. Mercer Lindon. She does not know my face. We’ve never met in person.

I sit with this for a long time.

I don’t plan to use it. I’m not Harold. I don’t weaponize connections.

But I file it away. If everything falls apart in Millbrook, I am not a stranger to the most powerful family in the room.

That evening, Marcus does his own research. He calls me at nine.

“The reception venue, Millbrook Country Club. They’ve hired a local AV company to run a projector and sound system. Slideshow, toasts, the usual. And guess what? The AV company is short-staffed. They just posted looking for a freelance tech for the event.”

“Marcus…”

“I already applied. Got a call back in 20 minutes.”

“You don’t have to do this.”