“You’ve heard about the invitations, right?” they asked in a low tone.
I frowned.
“What about them?”
“They printed your start time 30 minutes later.
Just yours.
Several guests told me they thought they were early, but by the time they arrived, the first photos were done.
Made it look like you showed up late to your own party.”
The realization landed with the weight of inevitability.
“Of course,” I murmured.
A late arrival, no name in the introduction, and now the slideshow omissions.
They hadn’t just been improvising tonight, they’d built a sequence.
They’re playing the long game, Hollis said.
“Then I’ll change the rules,” I replied.
The band struck up something light as servers began placing plates for dessert.
I glanced toward the center of the room.
My father checked his watch, then looked to my mother, who gave Veila a small nod.
It was the kind of signal you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.
I was looking.
Whatever was next, I intended to be one step ahead.
From my seat, I kept one eye on the dessert plates being set down and the other on my parents.
They’d been glancing at me more often, exchanging looks that weren’t meant for anyone else to read.
Hollis caught my attention from across the room and tilted their head toward the side hallway.
The look on their face wasn’t casual.
I rose slowly, weaving past chatting guests and followed their lead toward the service corridor near the kitchen.
The clatter of dishes and the muffled voice of a server faded as we stopped beside a half-cloed door.
Through the narrow gap, I heard my father’s voice.
Calm, deliberate.
“Just make sure she drinks it.
No scene, no trouble.”
My mother’s reply came sharp and certain.
“It’ll be quick.
She’ll just seem faint from the champagne.”
Then Veila’s unmistakable tone.
“I’ll cue the toast.”
The words sank in, cold and heavy.
My pulse quickened, but I forced my breathing to stay even.
I memorized every syllable.
Without looking down, I caught Hollis’s subtle movement, a tap on their phone, proof that it was all being recorded.
I stepped back, letting the door close without a sound.
The phrase I’d read once in a courtroom memoir drifted into my mind.
Never go into a fight without evidence in your pocket.
When we returned to the main room, I wore the same composed smile I’d been carrying all night.
Guests were applauding at one of the center tables.
Sirene was standing there handing a neatly wrapped package to my former professor who beamed as he unwrapped it.
It took me less than a second to recognize the gift.
The leatherbound first edition, the one I’d tracked down months ago, ordered from a tiny shop in Vermont.
I had included a handwritten note on Cream stationery, now gone.
“I searched high and low for this,” Sirene was telling the table, her voice warm with self-satisfaction.
“I knew it was the perfect gift.”
Applause circled again.
I stayed where I was, clapping politely.
Outwardly, nothing changed.