But I wasn’t ready to hear any of them.
Not yet.
Because what they didn’t know was this wasn’t the only leverage I had.
They thought I’d just cancel the venue and disappear again.
But I’d seen enough tonight to know that it was time for more than just walking away.
It was time to make sure they remembered exactly who they had underestimated.
I didn’t go straight home.
Instead, I parked in a quiet lot by the waterfront and sat with the engine off, windows down, just listening to the water lap against the dock.
It was late, almost midnight, but I didn’t feel tired.
I felt wired, like I had swallowed an electric current.
My fingers drumed against the steering wheel while my mind raced through every moment of that dinner. Every smug comment, every fake smile, every time my mother glanced at me like I was something she had to explain away.
I hadn’t planned on pulling the plug tonight.
That folder in my bag had been a quiet threat, a last resort, just in case things went south.
But I should have known.
Deep down, I’d expected it.
I practically scripted their lines in my head.
Still, hearing them say it out loud, Brook’s little jab about people like you, my mom raising her glass like I was some charity case they decided to tolerate for an evening.
It was worse than I’d imagined.
Not because it was new, but because it wasn’t.
It was the same script, same roles, same applause, except now I was done playing mine.
I unlocked my phone and opened my email.
I already had the venue manager’s contact pulled up. I’d met her personally when I’d arranged the deposit.
Nice woman, extremely competent, and a little too eager to work with someone who had real money.
I didn’t send the cancellation yet.
Not tonight.
I wasn’t doing this in a haze of emotion.
I wanted to think.
Instead, I opened a different folder, one I’d labeled contingencies 6 weeks ago, just after Tyler sent that lukewarm text inviting me to the engagement dinner.
I’m not petty by default, but I am prepared.
This folder had everything.
Vendor contracts, the original design mock-ups for the invitations. Brooke had gushed about them on Instagram, a contact list of her bridesmaids, many of whom had never even met me.
And more importantly, a spreadsheet color-coded, meticulously detailed, outlining the entire financial scaffolding of their wedding.
Because what none of them knew was that the venue wasn’t the only thing I had covered.
Brooke had gone shopping with my mother back in January. She had posted about it, proudly showcasing her dream dress on a mannequin at a boutique downtown.