I felt my pulse thudding in my ears—a slow, heavy beat like a drum in a funeral procession. I pushed the door open.
Constance froze, her champagne flute halfway to her lips. Garrett turned, his face a mask of practiced neutrality that quickly crumbled into alarm.
“Fonda! We were just—”
“A plumber and a lunch lady,” I said. The words were quiet, but they cut through the room like a scalpel. “My father spent thirty-five years making sure people like you had clean water. My mother spent twenty years making sure children didn’t go hungry. And you think they’re an eyesore?”
“Fonda, sweetheart, you’re being emotional,” Constance said, stepping forward with that ceramic smile. “It’s your wedding day. Seating is a strategy, not a slight.”
“It’s a betrayal,” I said, looking directly at Garrett. “You knew. You watched them move my parents to the trash can and you said nothing because you were too busy looking at your own reflection.”
“Baby, come on,” Garrett reached for my arm. “Don’t ruin this. We’ve spent so much money—”
“My parents spent twelve thousand dollars,” I corrected him. “And you don’t even have the courage to put their names in the program.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t cry. I had spent too many years in the ER to cry when a patient was coding. And this relationship was flatlining.
I found Margot, my maid of honor, in the hallway. She looked at my face and knew.
“Fawn? What’s the plan?”
“The marriage license,” I whispered. “Is it signed?”
