“Please don’t pretend you don’t know how you look to people,” she said. “Arthur’s mother would notice immediately. His friends would notice. You’d walk in with that tired face and whatever bargain dress you found, and everyone would wonder what was wrong with my family.”
“I can buy a dress,” I said.
The words came out quietly. Not weakly. Just quietly.
Genevieve laughed as if I had offered to buy the moon.
“It isn’t just the dress, Matilda. It’s the entire presence. The old phone. The old car. The way you stand there like you’re waiting for someone to feel sorry for you. I cannot have that at my wedding.”
My father’s voice appeared then, heavy with the false patience of a man who thought cruelty became wisdom when spoken slowly.
“You are the older sister,” he said. “For once, make a sacrifice. Genevieve is stepping into an important family. Do not block her path.”
Block her path.
That was how they had always seen me.
Not as a daughter. Not as a sister. A misplaced object in the hallway.
My mother continued as if she were arranging flowers.
“We will send you five hundred dollars. Buy yourself a decent meal this weekend. Do not post about the wedding. Do not call anyone asking questions. Just let this pass quietly.”
I looked at the contract on the monitor.
Ninety-one million dollars.
And they were offering me five hundred dollars to disappear.
The memory of another rainy night came back with perfect clarity. Nine years earlier, I had been twenty-five, sitting on the floor of a rented room in Chicago, hungry, exhausted, and terrified my first company was about to die before it had a chance to breathe. I had called home to ask for a small loan to cover server costs. My father had sighed into the phone. My mother had called me foolish. Genevieve had laughed in the background and said I was always chasing embarrassing ideas.
They refused me.
That night, I ate dry noodles from the packet and made myself a promise.
I would never again let my survival depend on their approval.
