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I meet her gaze without flinching. “That’s a question for my supervisor. She’s the lead planner on this event. I’m just executing.”

Sarah’s mouth tightens. “Don’t use that tone with me, young lady. I know you’ve always been jealous of my daughters. It must kill you to be planning Sharon’s wedding. I know you wish you were the one in her shoes.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh before I can stop myself. “On the contrary. Sharon can have my sloppy seconds. I don’t mind at all.”

Sarah’s face morphs instantly, eyes widening, cheeks flushing an angry red. “How dare you?”

Her hand flies up, palm open, aimed straight for my cheek.

I don’t flinch. I don’t step back.

“Go on,” I say quietly, voice steady. “Do it. I’d love to see the headlines. ‘Mother of the Bride Gets Into Physical Altercation with Event Planner—Who Also Happens to Be Her Stepdaughter, at Daughter’s Luxury Hamptons Wedding.’ The high society pages would eat that up. Your friends would never let you live it down.”

Her hand freezes mid-air. She glances around quickly, eyes darting to the staff setting up nearby, the early-arriving guests milling by the bar, the photographer adjusting his lens across the room.

Sarah is many things: cruel, manipulative, narcissistic, but above all, she’s a social climber. Reputation is her oxygen. This wedding isn’t just about Sharon; it’s about proving to everyone in her circle that she’s finally made it. A public scene would ruin that faster than anything.

Her hand drops. She smooths her dress instead, like that was the plan all along.

I smile. “Didn’t think so.”

Then I tuck the clipboard under my arm, turn on my heel, and walk away.

The rehearsal dinner passes in a merciful blur. I keep my distance from the head table like it’s radioactive. Sharon holds court, laughing too loudly at everything Luke says, her hand permanently glued to his arm. Sarah and Stella orbit them like planets around a sun.

Dad sits quietly at the edge of it all, nursing a scotch, glancing my way once or twice but never quite meeting my eyes. We exchange maybe three words total—“good evening,” “everything looks nice,” “thank you”—and that’s more than enough.

Luke tries once. He catches me near the dessert station, starts toward me with that familiar hesitant smile, mouth already forming my name. I turn on my heel, walk straight into the kitchen corridor, and don’t come back out until I see him retreat to the bride’s side.

By the time I slip out the side exit and make it back to my hotel room, I’m bone-tired. But the second I close the door behind me, the silence feels too loud. Mabel’s voice echoes in my head: Go out. Have fun. You’re in the Hamptons after all.

I hesitate for a moment, then crouch down and dig through my suitcase, pulling out the red number she insisted I pack—a sleek, off-the-shoulder midi dress. I slip it on, drape a shawl of the same color over my shoulders, run my fingers through my hair, and call an Uber.

“Nearest decent bar,” I tell the driver when I slide into the back seat.

Ten minutes later, I’m stepping out in front of a place that practically screams money.

I pause for a second, taking it in: Dark walnut paneling, low amber lighting from brass sconces, tufted leather booths tucked into shadowy corners. A baby grand sits unused in the far corner, but the sound system pipes in smooth, low jazz.

The air smells like aged bourbon and expensive cologne. Everyone here is dressed like they’re auditioning for a yacht catalog: tailored suits, silk dresses, watches that cost more than my car.

A place like this will cost a lot.

I purse my lips slightly and make a quick mental note to stay within budget. Drinks only.

I walk straight to the bar, slide onto a stool, and catch the bartender’s eye.

“Glass of red, please.”

He nods, pours a generous measure of a cabernet, and slides it over. I wrap my fingers around the stem and take a long sip. The day I’ve had deserves something stronger, tequila, maybe, but tomorrow’s the wedding. I have to be up at dawn. So wine it is.

I sip again, letting the warmth spread through my chest, and glance around. Men and women laughing with no care in the world, clinking glasses. Business associates, mistresses, second wives, hanging off the arms of their companions.

I almost smile thinking how Mabel and I would do this together, profile every single one of them, invent ridiculous backstories, and dissolve into giggles over our third round. God, I miss her.

My eyes drift and catch on a guy two stools down. Dark suit, open collar, expensive watch. Screams trust fund with a side of rebellion. He’s got that “my father doesn’t approve of my lifestyle but still pays the Amex” energy. He notices me looking and flashes a smile.

I return it, small and polite, then look away, back to my wine. Apparently, that’s an invitation enough.