The clinking of silver against my mother’s fine china should have been soothing, the sound of family tradition. But tonight, it set my teeth on edge. I sat between Beckett and Sutton at the long mahogany table, pushing roasted Brussels sprouts around my plate while Aunt Margaret droned on about her cruise to the Bahamas.
Beckett’s flannel shirt still had faint traces of drywall dust on the collar, and his work boots were scuffed beneath the table. He caught me looking and gave me that small, private smile that said he would rather be anywhere else. Then my mother’s manicured hands pressed flat against the table.
The room went silent. Even Aunt Margaret stopped mid-sentence about snorkeling. “Before we have dessert,” Mom said, her voice bright and practiced, “Nicholas and I have an announcement about Sutton’s wedding.”
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
Sutton sat up straighter, her Instagram-ready smile already in place. “You know how much we adore both our daughters,” Mom continued, and my stomach tightened at the qualifier. Nothing good ever followed that phrase.
“And we believe in supporting family dreams.”
Dad cleared his throat, straightening his tie. “Delilah and I have secured the February 20th opening at the Alta Aspen Resort for Sutton and Tripp’s wedding.”
Sutton squealed. Actual squealing.
Tripp pumped his fist like he had just won something. I set down my fork carefully. The Alta Aspen Resort.
That venue cost more than I made in a year. “A celebrity couple canceled last minute,” Mom said, beaming. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime influencer opportunity.
The exposure alone is worth—”
“How are you paying for it?”
The question came out sharper than I intended. Mom’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, that’s the thing, sweetheart.
We accessed your trust fund. Forty-eight thousand dollars. It covered the deposit and most of the—”
The rest of her words turned into white noise.
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