He kept defending them in that tired, hesitant tone people use when they know they’re wrong but hope you’ll let it go anyway. Connor’s fiancée, Vivian, came from old Connecticut money. Every detail of the wedding had been curated for photos, society pages, and social media. The venue was a restored estate outside Newport, filled with marble fountains and imported roses. Apparently, I didn’t match the image. After enough pushing, Ethan admitted Vivian thought I was “too outspoken,” and that my job as an investigative reporter might make some of her family uneasy.

“So they invited your silence,” I said.

He looked guilty—but not guilty enough to stay home.

That was what hurt the most.

“You’re still going,” I said.

“It’s my brother.”

“And I’m your wife.”

After that, neither of us spoke. The silence between us felt like a final judgment.

The morning he left, I smiled. Not because I was okay—but because I was done asking for respect. While he loaded his tux into the car, I sat at the kitchen counter and booked myself a week in Rome. Business class. A five-star hotel near the Spanish Steps. Private food tours, museum passes, and a leather shopping budget so reckless it almost made me laugh. By the time he came back in for his charger, I was already scrolling through confirmation emails.

“You booked a trip?”