Mark snapped back. “You can’t leave. We just got married.”
I looked at him. My husband. Less than two hours ago, I had said “I do” in front of an altar full of white roses. Less than two hours ago, I thought this man was my home. Now, his face looked like a stranger’s—a mask someone had dropped too early.
“I signed a marriage certificate,” I said. “Not a property deed transfer.”
Diane marched toward us, her eyes blazing with rage. “Your mother is manipulating you. A married woman should trust her husband.”
My mom stepped in front of me. “A married woman should be able to sleep without her mother-in-law counting her bedrooms.”
“You are an intrusive, meddling woman!”
“I am a mother who smelled the greed before you even opened your mouth.”
That word moved something deep inside me. Greed. That was it. Not affection. Not family. Greed for a Tribeca address, a private elevator, marble floors—the right to walk through the city saying “my house” even if they hadn’t paid for a single throw pillow.
My dad stepped toward Mark. “Don’t make this any bigger.”
Mark let out a bitter laugh. “Bigger? Your wife just humiliated us.”
My dad looked at him with a terrifying, icy calm. “No. Your mother tried to do that first.”
The wedding coordinator appeared, pale, asking if we were going to continue with the first dance. I almost laughed. My life was shattering next to a three-tier cake, and someone wanted to know about a dance.
“There is no dance,” I said.
