At my sister’s engagement party, she clinked her glass, smiled sweetly and whispered, “You’ll never find anyone.” Everyone laughed. I just sipped my champagne and texted my “imaginary boyfriend”: REJECT HER FIRM. 9 A.M. MONDAY. By Sunday brunch, my sister was sobbing over a brutal email from Northgate Capital, signed by my secret husband. Mom demanded I fix it. I slid a City Hall wedding photo across the table—and watched their faces fall.
The night my sister got officially welcomed into the Windsor family, I stood in the corner of a ballroom named after a duke who’d probably never seen so much white hydrangea in his life.
The Windsor Grand Ballroom smelled like money trying to pretend it was flowers. Towering centerpieces, glass vases taller than some of the guests, soft golden light washing over everyone so kindly it made strangers look like movie stars. A jazz trio played something breezy and expensive in the corner. A waitstaff army moved in perfect rhythm: pour, smile, glide away.
I clutched a champagne flute I hadn’t touched yet and watched my sister work the room like she’d been born under a spotlight.
