Delaney wasn’t done. She snatched the microphone off the pulpit, kicked my bouquet down the aisle, and paraded in front of the altar like she’d already won. “Look at her shoes, everyone. Rented. Look at that veil — polyester. Sweetie, we called your little food truck to cater the REAL reception tonight at the Whitfield estate. Wear something clean this time.” The guests froze. My own father, in his rented tux, took one step forward and Loretta hissed, “Sit DOWN, Raymond, unless you want that lien on the diner called in tomorrow.” He sat. Grant finally spoke, eyes still on the floor: “Ivy… it’s easier this way. Mom’s right. We move in different worlds.” I felt every eye in that church peel the skin off me. Then the double doors at the back of the sanctuary slammed open so hard the stained glass rattled. Six people in charcoal suits walked in two-by-two, earpieces in, and split down the side aisles. Behind them, a silver-haired woman in a cream coat moved down the center aisle at a pace that made the flower petals lift off the runner. She stopped one foot from Delaney, looked her up and down once, and said, “You called my granddaughter a waitress.” Loretta’s face went the color of the altar candles. “M-Mrs. Kensington-Vale — I didn’t — she never said —” “She never said,” the woman repeated softly, “because we asked her not to. We wanted to see who Grant really was without the name. Congratulations, Loretta. You showed us.” She turned to me, cupped my cheek, and slid something back into my hair where the veil had been. Then she faced the pews and lifted one finger. Behind her, the tallest man in a charcoal suit stepped forward holding a leather folder stamped with a crest half the room recognized from the side of three downtown buildings — including the one holding Loretta’s mortgage. Delaney whispered, “Oh my God.” Grant finally looked up. And my grandmother smiled, the exact same smile she uses right before a hostile takeover, and said, “Now. Let’s talk about which of you still has a career on Monday.”
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