The announcement came sooner than anyone expected.

By morning, Father’s assistant was already making calls, arranging fittings, contacting florists and caterers. The air in the house shifted — heavy with perfume, gossip, and forced celebration.

“Carl Sterling has agreed,” Father told me over breakfast, his tone almost triumphant. “You’ll be married before the season ends.”

I didn’t answer. My fingers trembled around the cup of tea that had long gone cold.

He went on as if I ...