My jaw tightens. Harley spent weeks deciding on burgundy and gold.
“Harley has her heart set on burgundy and gold,” I say.
“Burgundy is so heavy, darling. Almost funereal, like I won’t know if I should show up in a limo or a hearse.” Mother’s dismissal is wrapped in concern, her specialty. “Silver and navy are classic Thompson. Your cousin Abigail used it for her wedding at the club three years ago, and it photographed beautifully.”
“Mother, enough.” I did it. I pushed back. But then she tilts her head, that disappointed shadow crossing her face, and the strength drains out of me as quickly as it came. I can’t doround two. “Look, I hear you. But Harley has specific ideas for the centerpieces. Discuss it with her. I’m not changing anything without her input.”
“Wonderful!” Mother’s voice brightens. “I’m sure she’ll agree. I’ve also spoken with Belvedere Florists about the centerpieces. Calla lilies and white roses with silver accents. So much more sophisticated than those silly wildflower arrangements Harley had mentioned.”
“As I said, speak to Harley about it first.”
“It makes more sense for you to handle that, darling. Woman to woman, these conversations can become unnecessarily emotional. You can present it as a joint decision.”
“Mother, we agreed to plan this together—” I begin, summoning a feeble protest.
“I’ve also updated the guest list,” she interrupts smoothly. “I’ve added twenty more of your father’s business associates. It would be a grave oversight to exclude them.”
Twenty more strangers in expensive suits, judging Harley.
“We’re trying to keep it small,” I say, my voice hollow.
“Skyler.” Mother’s tone shifts. “A Thompson wedding isn’t just a personal celebration; it’s a social obligation. These connections are crucial to your father’s business and to your future. Surely Harley understands that.”
I close my eyes, picturing Harley’s face.
“Fine,” I concede, defeat familiar as an old sweater. “Add them to the list.”
“Perfect. I’ll have my assistant send over the updated spreadsheet.” The triumph in her voice is expertly concealed, but I hear it anyway. “Now, about the venue—”
“It’s tentatively booked,” I cut in, attempting to salvage some small piece of autonomy.
“The country club has penciled us in for the third Saturday in October,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “That gives usexactly twelve weeks for preparations. A bit rushed, but with my connections, we’ll manage.”
“Mother—”
“I must run, darling. Meeting with the garden club in twenty minutes. We’ll speak soon about the menu options. I’m thinking a choice of filet mignon or sea bass. Nothing too adventurous.”
The call ends and I stare at the phone, the screen fading to black like my integrity.
I return to my desk, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. I stare at the Henderson blueprints, seeing only burgundy and gold dissolving into Thompson silver and navy.
Chapter 9
Skyler
The afternoon drags after Mother’s call. I stare at the same blueprint section for twenty minutes, absorbing nothing. My coffee’s gone cold, a fitting metaphor for my cooling courage. I push back from my desk, mug in hand, needing caffeine like oxygen.
The break room sits at the far end of the floor. A journey past twenty desks of colleagues who have no idea that I just sacrificed my fiancée’s wedding dreams on the altar of maternal approval. Again.
The office hums with productivity about zoning regulations and material costs. I envy their focus, their ability to exist in a world where family names don’t come with century-old expectations.
When I reach the break room, I find James Holloway at the coffee machine, watching the dark stream fill his “World’sOkayest Architect” mug—a gift from his wife that he displays with unself-conscious pride. The sight of something so personal, so authentic in its humor, makes my chest ache with a feeling I can’t quite name.
“Thompson.” James nods, his casual greeting free of the weight my surname carries. “You look like you need this more than I do.” He steps aside, gesturing to the coffee machine.
“That obvious?” I force a smile, stepping up to rinse my mug.
“You’ve got that ‘just got off the phone with a difficult client’ look,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Henderson giving you trouble about the atrium again?”
