My stomach dropped. No heads‑up, no text, nothing. I’d known they were serious, but marriage? Without a word to me? I set the mug down hard, screen still glowing. I scrolled through the comments—friends congratulating, heart emojis everywhere. One post linked to a full album: ceremony shots, vows, cake cutting. All of it happened yesterday, apparently, at some rooftop venue downtown.
I hit call—straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Third, fourth—same. By the seventh, my thumb hovered then pressed. This time it rang twice before connecting. A woman’s voice answered, crisp and annoyed, on speaker.
“What now?”
“Put my brother on,” I said, keeping my tone even.
Hailey laughed, short and sharp. “Oh, it’s you. Listen, Kayla—Dylan’s busy. We just got back from the reception, and he doesn’t need you stirring drama.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Stirring? I didn’t even know there was a wedding. Why wasn’t I told?”
Silence for a beat. Then her voice turned icy. “Because I didn’t want you there. You hover over him like he’s still a kid—always inserting yourself, paying for everything to keep control. It’s pathetic, honestly. Dylan agrees—he’s tired of it.”
My breath caught. “He said that?”