Part 1: The Head Table
The wedding was supposed to take place at a grand estate outside San Antonio, the kind of place built for photographs and family mythology. Climbing roses wrapped the stone archways, warm string lights hung from the trees, and a white reception tent shimmered softly beyond the courtyard while a string trio rehearsed inside. I was in the bridal suite fastening my grandmother’s earrings when my cousin Natalie—my maid of honor and the one person in my family who never softened the truth—burst through the door without knocking.
Her face had gone so pale it looked almost gray.
“Sophie, you need to come with me right now.”
I didn’t ask questions. Something in her voice made questions feel useless. I gathered the front of my dress in both hands and followed her down the narrow service hallway toward the ballroom.
The farther we walked, the colder I felt, as if the air itself had thinned. When we stepped inside, three waiters were shifting place cards at the head table with the strained, guilty movements of people who know they are in the middle of something ugly and do not want to be remembered for it. At first I thought it was some ordinary last-minute change, the kind weddings always breed.
Then I saw the names.
To the right of Ethan’s seat were Mr. and Mrs. Calloway—his parents.
Then his sister and her husband, two of his uncles, and three cousins. Nine seats. Nine perfect place settings.
Nine polished glasses catching the light.
I scanned the table for my parents’ names and found nothing.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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