The Laurent Reserve.
Tiffany had slipped an addendum into the catering contract forty-eight hours ago, while I was sitting in the bank transferring the proceeds of the land sale. She had ordered six magnums of an imported, vintage champagne produced by a boutique house in Reims, costing nineteen hundred and fifty dollars per bottle. Nearly twelve thousand dollars for twelve minutes of fizz.
When Marcus had called me in shock on Friday morning to confirm the authorization, I had felt something inside me snap—a thin, brittle wire of endurance that had held my tongue for six agonizing months.
*“Remove it,”* I had told Marcus. *“Strike it from the manifest immediately.”*
*“Mrs. Bennett, Miss Vance indicated this was essential for her father’s toast,”* Marcus had warned.
*“Unless Arthur Vance walks into your office with twelve thousand dollars in physical cash before five o’clock today,”* I had replied, *“the answer is an absolute, unqualified no.”*
Arthur hadn’t brought cash. Arthur hadn’t brought a checkbook. Arthur hadn’t even brought a credit card that wouldn’t be declined for over-limit fees.
Now, across the crowded, glittering ballroom, I saw the bartender shake his head firmly. I saw Arthur Vance’s chest swell with indignation. He turned away from the bar, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for a mouse, until his gaze locked onto his daughter.
Tiffany was listening to one of her bridesmaids when her father reached her. He leaned down, his mouth twisting as he whispered into her ear.
I watched the transformation in real time. The practiced, porcelain smile vanished from Tiffany’s face. Her chin lifted. Her spine went rigid beneath the French lace. Her eyes darted across the sea of chiffon and dinner jackets until they found me, standing quietly by the side exit.
May you like
She didn’t walk across the dance floor. She marched.
