Not of me as her embarrassing mother or convenient banker, but recognition of what she had done—what she had said—and what was now unfolding as a result.
“Mom is selling our house,” she whispered to Blake. “It was never ours at all.”
Blake’s confusion deepened.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s ours. We’ve been living there for two years.”
“Actually,” I said quietly, “that’s the first matter we need to clarify.”
As the Prescotts gathered around my kitchen table, I began the systematic dismantling of the carefully constructed narrative that had allowed Amber to position herself as Blake’s equal in wealth and status.
A narrative built entirely on my silent sacrifices and her deliberate omissions.
The house was just the beginning.
“Mrs. Carter,” Richard Prescott began, his authoritative baritone carrying the confidence of a man accustomed to controlling any room he entered, “while I understand there may be some family dispute happening here, surely canceling the entire wedding is an overreaction. There are two hundred guests, many who have traveled.”
“Dad, wait,” Blake interrupted, his attention fixed on the property deed Amber still clutched. “What’s this about our house?”
Victoria moved closer, peering over her son’s shoulder at the document. Her perfectly maintained features shifted from confusion to something harder as comprehension dawned.
“The house is in Sophia’s name,” she said slowly, “but you told us it was your inheritance, Amber.”
All eyes turned to my daughter, who seemed to shrink in her chair.
“I never exactly said that,” she mumbled. “I just didn’t correct certain assumptions.”
“Assumptions you deliberately encouraged,” I said.
“Just as you encouraged the assumption that you and Blake were financing the wedding.”
Victoria’s head snapped up.
“What does that mean? Blake told us you insisted on paying for everything, as per tradition.”
“I did pay for everything,” I confirmed. “Every deposit. Every vendor. Every detail of the now-canceled event. $78,452.36, to be precise.”
Richard Prescott’s jaw tightened.
“That’s impossible. The venue alone is $22,000 for the day, plus $7,500 for the premium catering package and $4,200 for the open bar.”
I slid the contract across the table.
“All paid from my accounts.”
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