The words hung in the air of the elegant country club dining room, sharp as glass shards and just as cutting. For a moment, everything around me seemed to freeze—the waitstaff pouring champagne, the wedding planner reviewing tomorrow’s timeline, the curious glances from Blake’s parents.
I, Sophia Carter, fifty-eight years old, stood perfectly still, my hands still outstretched toward the seating chart I’d been trying to discuss with my daughter.
“Amber,” I said quietly. “Let’s step outside and talk about this calmly.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Amber hissed, her perfectly made-up face contorted with a rage that felt wildly
