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I force a smile and let her inside.

We go up to my bedroom. Jasmine immediately starts rummaging through my makeup drawer like she owns the place.

“So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “what have I missed?”

“Not much. Lia got the most tragic bangs. I told her her forehead couldn’t handle it, but she never listens.” She glances at me and wrinkles her nose. “God, Grace, have you been eating your feelings? You’ve definitely gained a pound. Maybe two. Look at your cheeks.”

She pinches one a little too hard.

She’s right. I’ve gained three pounds from all that greasy food with Drew.

“And why are your thighs so jacked?” she asks, inspecting them with open disapproval.

“Tennis,” I lie. It’s probably not tennis. It’s probably the countless times I rode Drew in the front seat of his car.

“You should ease up. You’ll drop it before the wedding, I’m sure,” she says breezily, already moving on. “You’re invited again, by the way. Wren’s invested in Charles’s thing—Precision DNA. This couldn’t have worked out better if we’d planned it ourselves. You’re going to be the richest housewife in the city.”

That would have excited me a few months ago, but actually, I really don’t care about that anymore.

“Did you get my voicemail?” I ask quietly.

Jasmine’s expression flickers for half a second before she drops onto the edge of my bed with a theatrical sigh.

“I mean…you know how these things work,” she says with a little shrug, refusing to meet my eyes. “All men do that kind of thing. You can’t stop it.”

“Mine wouldn’t. I would not put up with that for a second,” I say.

“You’re so dramatic,” she mutters, the words laced with something that sounds like spite. Then she looks me over critically. “Word of advice? Charles will do the same. Hopefully with someone more upper-class than a massage parlour, but you’ll just have to get used to it. Now, do you even own a dress that fits you right now?”

Something inside me finally snaps. The words burst out before I can stop them.

“I don’t want to marry Charles,” I say.

Jasmine laughs like I’ve told a joke. “Don’t be silly⁠—”

“I don’t like him,” I cut in, firmer this time. “And you shouldn’t stay with Wren either. You deserve better than that.”

For a moment Jasmine just stares at me. Then her expression hardens into something cold and dismissive.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she says, her voice sharp. “We have everything everyone dreams of, Grace. You should be on your knees thanking God that Charles is still willing to settle for Max Carter’s reject.”

Her words sting, but I know she’s not trying to be cruel. That’s just how our world works. We were raised to see this as the ultimate prize. Jasmine and I spent our whole lives dreaming about exactly this—marrying billionaires, becoming glamorous housewives, living the kind of shiny, perfect life people envy. It used to sound like paradise.

Now it feels like a cage.

I don’t want to end up with a man like my father. Because I’ve already seen what that life does to someone.

Mom always looked so happy on the surface. She’d paste on that perfect smile, staying beautifully put together even when she was exhausted. But toward the end, the cracks started to show.

She waited up night after night for a husband who barely looked at her when he finally came home. He’d walk in late, mutter that he was tired, and disappear into his study without so much as a kiss on the cheek. When she tried to reach for him, he dismissed her. Like she was an inconvenience.

Every year, she seemed to shrink a little more. Like someone was slowly turning the light down inside her until one day there was almost nothing left.

And then she started packing.

Shame crashes through me as I remember the things I said. I repeated every cruel thing Dad had said. That she was selfish, pathetic, too old for anyone else to want, too old to start over. I said it all with the same cold certainty he used, like I was reciting facts instead of tearing my own mother apart.

But I didn’t understand back then.