“Remember cocktail dress? Photographer coming at 4:00.”
Casual, right?
That wasn’t an accident.
That was a trap disguised as a favor.
If I showed up underdressed, I’d look messy in the photos. If I showed up overdressed, I’d look like I was trying too hard.
Either way, I’d be the joke.
The perfect little party trick: humiliate me without ever raising their voice.
Then there was the voice message.
The night after I saw that preview, I called Belle because some small, stubborn part of me still wanted to believe sisters could be sisters.
I kept my tone polite.
I asked if she needed help with the party.
The pause on the other end was long enough to feel like a decision.
“Oh, Grandma invited you, too,” she said, flat as a countertop, like I’d just told her the weather.
We hung up.
20 minutes later, a voice memo hit my phone.
