“Is your father seriously wearing a rented suit to my country club?” my mother-in-law scoffed loud enough for my parents to hear. My groom rolled his eyes, pushing my mother’s handmade gift into the trash. “Just ignore the peasants today,”

My bouquet shook in my hands, cheap white daisies tied with satin ribbon because I had refused Patricia’s imported orchids. I forced my face into a soft, wounded smile. I even nodded, tearful and apologetic, exactly the way they expected poor girls to react when wealthy people slapped them with velvet gloves.

Patricia’s smile widened.

“There,” she said. “See? She knows her place.”

Across the ballroom, waiters drifted like shadows between gold chairs and towers of champagne. Beyond the arched windows, Whitmore Country Club stretched across two hundred acres of rolling green hills, tennis courts, stables, and a lake shining like polished steel.

Their kingdom.

Or so they believed.

My phone vibrated once inside the hidden pocket of my dress.

A message from Mr. Dorsey, my attorney.

Closing complete. Deed recorded. Manager informed. Awaiting your signal.

I looked at my father. He had retrieved the frame from the trash and was holding it carefully against his chest.

Then I looked at Nolan.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Let’s get through today.”

And for the first time that morning, my smile was genuine.