Chapter 3

Naomi didn't drive away.

She had a choice. She could keep going, down the empty county road, toward a life where her family's voices were nothing more than a faint buzz in a rearview mirror. Or she could turn around and see what her own courage looked like from the outside.

The van idled at the turnoff for three minutes.

Then Naomi checked her mirror—the road behind her was clear, empty, waiting—and pulled a U-turn.

It took her twelve minutes to get back to Red Oak Venue. She drove slowly, deliberately, her hands steady on the wheel. The phone sat in the passenger seat, screen dark, the weight of Derek's message still heavy in the air. She didn't look at it. She didn't want to know what was happening in the reception hall. Not yet.

She parked the van at the edge of the parking lot, in a spot where she could see the front entrance without being seen. The guest cars were still there—the same rows she'd driven past an hour ago. But now, faintly, she could hear something unusual. Raised voices. A door slamming.

Naomi got out of the van.

The morning had turned bright and hot, the sun fully up and pressing down on the black asphalt. She walked along the edge of the parking lot, keeping to the shade of the trees, until she could see the reception hall's front doors.

They were open.

She heard her mother's voice before she saw her. The dusty-rose dress was easy to spot in the crowd of guests, moving through them like a swimmer fighting a current.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harriet said, her voice high and brittle. "It's a misunderstanding. A family matter."

A guest—a woman in a navy dress, Naomi didn't recognize her—held up her phone. "This isn't a misunderstanding, Harriet. This is your daughter telling Naomi she doesn't get paid because she's family."

"That's a private conversation!"

"The camera was over a loading dock. It's a commercial space. There's no reasonable expectation of privacy."

More phones were coming out. More guests were looking down at screens, their faces changing from confused to uncomfortable to outraged. Naomi watched the tide of it move through the crowd. She saw the florist with his arms full of arrangements, frozen, looking at his own phone. She saw the photographer, camera hanging from his neck, using the same hand to scroll through footage.

And there, at the center of it all, stood Celeste.