And she was done delaying them.
The reception lasted hours.
Too long, you thought. Too many speeches from people whose smiles never reached their eyes. Too much expensive food you barely tasted. Too many discreet conversations ending when you approached. More than once, you caught one of the security men watching you with something like pity. Not contempt. Pity.
That unsettled you.
Celia stayed close but distracted. Her hand kept finding yours under the table or brushing your back as if to remind herself you were still there. Once, while a quartet played near the dance floor and guests swirled in low golden light, you leaned in and whispered, “You okay?”
She smiled too quickly.
“I will be.”
You should have asked more then.
Instead, you let the night carry you toward the room prepared upstairs in the main residence, a suite large enough to swallow your childhood house whole. When the last formalities ended and the staff withdrew, the silence inside that room felt unreal. Thick carpet. Soft lamps. French doors opening to a private terrace. A bed so wide it seemed invented for people who had never known cramped living.
You turned toward her, smiling, unsure, overwhelmed.
That was when Celia picked up an envelope from the dresser and placed it in your hands.
“What’s this?” you asked.
“A wedding gift,” she said.
Inside was cash.
More money than you had ever touched in your life.
Your throat closed. “Celia…”
She crossed the room and lifted a set of car keys from a lacquered box. “And this.”
You stared at the keys, then back at her. “No.”
