My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been dating a man whose arrival required a presidential security sweep. Then the security team cleared the main hall.

The room went silent in the way rooms do when power enters without being invited. Christian crossed the room and took my hand with easy familiarity, kissing my cheek.

“Sorry I’m early,” he murmured to me. “The sweep took longer than expected.”

Mrs. Redcliff recovered first and lifted her chin. “Mr. Moore, we had no idea you would be attending.”

“I know,” Christian said. “We wanted this to be about Serena and your son, and it still is.”

Christian’s gaze flicked around the room before he pulled out his phone. “I’m confused because the seating chart says Penelope is in the back row.”

My mother’s face flushed so fast it looked painful. “There was a mix-up,” she said quickly.

“A mix-up about whether Penelope should sit with her own family?” Christian echoed.

“She doesn’t fit the image,” Mrs. Redcliff murmured to her husband, though Christian heard her anyway.

“The image,” Christian repeated, his expression turning colder. “I see.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and straightened his jacket. “My mother asked me to invite you all to a private reception at the White House to celebrate the marriage.”