My sister walked into my wedding wearing white—not ivory, champagne, or one of those pale dresses someone could defend by blaming the lighting, but unmistakable bridal white. The moment Paige appeared at the back of the chapel, conversations stopped, my aunt stared openly, and my cousin covered her mouth as if she had just witnessed a disaster unfold.
Brooke, my maid of honor, immediately turned toward me with panic in her eyes. She looked ready to physically remove Paige from the church if I gave her permission.
“Clara, do you want me to handle this?”
I kept my eyes on my sister. Her hair fell in perfect curls over one shoulder, her lips were painted the same soft rose shade I had worn since college, and the silk dress fit her so perfectly that anyone would have assumed it had been made specifically for her.
It had.
“No,” I said quietly. “Let her come in.”
Brooke stared at me as though I had lost my mind, but I knew exactly what I was doing. For twenty-nine years, Paige had treated life like a stage and my milestones like opportunities to redirect the spotlight toward herself.
At my high-school graduation, she announced her engagement. When I bought my first house, she posted online about how I had supposedly abandoned our family, and when Ethan proposed to me, she laughed before offering a warning I never forgot.
