Most accepted.

Six weeks after the restaurant incident, I stood in the bridal suite above the Bellamy Events ballroom while my mother fastened the final button on my dress.

The wine stain had never completely left her cream blouse.

She kept it anyway.

“Why?” I asked after finding it in her closet.

She smiled.

“To remember that expensive fabric can survive less than people can.”

That sounded exactly like Mom.

Downstairs, my father was pretending not to be emotional while checking details three managers had already checked.

Daniel stood near the windows overlooking the Chicago River.

Charles was beside him.

Linda wasn’t there.

For weeks, I wondered whether her absence would cast a shadow over the day.

It didn’t.

The ceremony was quiet and beautiful.

No scene.

No whispers about status.

Nobody cared that I had once carried trays through a company my father owned.

During dinner, Marcus stopped beside our table.

“Mrs. Whitmore—” he began automatically, referring to my new surname.

I raised an eyebrow.

He laughed.

“Emily. Sorry. Old habits.”

“What is it?”

“There’s someone at the front entrance asking to speak with Daniel.”

My stomach tightened.

“Linda?”

Marcus nodded.

Daniel heard.

He started to stand, but I took his hand.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I know.”

He looked toward the ballroom doors.

“Let’s handle it together.”

We followed Marcus into the lobby.

Linda stood outside the locked inner doors wearing a dark blue dress.

She was alone.