I squeeze his hand. “It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t look convinced.
Mother turns her attention to me. “So. The wedding.”
Oh no.
“We should discuss logistics,” she continues, as if we’re negotiating a corporate merger. “I’m thinking September. The Pierre, perhaps. Or the Botanical Gardens if we want outdoor.”
“Mother—”
“Five hundred guests, minimum. The Whitmore family alone is sixty. Then there’s the foundation board, your father’s business contacts?—”
“Mother.”
She pauses, teacup halfway to her lips. “Yes?”
“We’re thinking small.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I see the gears turning. “How small?”
“Very.”
“Define very.”
Wesley’s hand finds mine under the table. Reinforcements.
“Immediate family,” I say. “Close friends. Intimate.”
“Fifty people,” Mother translates, which in her world is a board meeting.
“Try twenty,” Wesley says.
She sets down her cup with precision. “Twenty.”
“Give or take.”
Lila’s watching this like it’s Wimbledon. Anne looks delighted. Uncle Julian hides a smile behind his coffee.
Mother studies Wesley, reassessing. Then she does something I’ve never seen: she smiles. Not her social smile, her real one.
“Serena,” Wesley says at that moment, and Mother’s eyes spark—mirth, of all things. She tips her head, pearls catching light.
Her tone stays light; the pause lands heavy. One lifted brow, a hint of a smile. “Then let me plan the engagement party.” Her eyes cut to me, daring a protest. “The whole thing.”
I groan. “Mother.”
Wesley’s grip firms around my hand. “How about this,” he says, mild as ever. “You get the engagement weekend. Welcome dinner, the party itself, farewell brunch—the full Preston experience. But we keep the wedding: the vows, the ceremony, the reception. Small. Ours.”
She holds his gaze—amused, calculating, not ready to surrender without negotiation. “The whole engagement weekend?”
“Guest list, venue, menu, entertainment—all yours.”
“And the wedding?”
“Ours. Twenty people. Maybe a cabin in Alaska. Maybe City Hall. We haven’t decided yet.”
Mother considers this, swirling her tea like it’s a fifty-year Scotch. Then she glances at me. “City Hall?”
