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At my sister’s wedding, my “family seat” was a wobbly folding table by the kitchen doors — even though I’d just landed a $30 million contract with her new in-laws. Mom hissed, “Don’t make a scene.” So I didn’t. I went to the bathroom, wiped off my mascara, and calmly killed the deal over the phone. By Monday, the cake was gone, the marriage was new — and the panicked calls from Blake Enterprises had just begun.
By the time my sister’s wedding invitation found me, it was already creased at the corners and dusted with flour from the pastry I’d dropped...
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