The song was “Coming Home” by Leon Bridges—slow, soulful, and sacred to us. Daniel’s right hand rested against the small of my back, his thumb tracing small circles through the silk of my

gown. For two minutes, the world was exactly the size of the parquet dance floor in the conservatory of the estate we’d rented.

I leaned my forehead against Daniel’s shoulder. His tux smelled of cedar and the faint starch of fresh linen. “We made it,” I whispered against his collar.

“We made it,” he murmured back. “No fires. No drama.”

Then the music died.

Not a fade-out. It was the violent, hollow pop of an audio cable being wrenched from a direct input box, followed by the high-pitched shriek of feedback that made seventy-year-old great-aunts flinch and drop their champagne flutes.

Daniel’s hand tightened on my back. My spine went straight. As a corporate event host, my ears were tuned to production failures. That sound wasn't a blown amplifier; it was somebody yanking equipment.

From behind the eight-foot floral arch near the conservatory doors, a hiss broke out. It sounded like an industrial pipe bursting.

“What is that?” Daniel asked, turning his head.

Dense, chalky pink fog rolled along the hardwood floor. It didn't drift gracefully like low-lying dry ice; it erupted from two metal canisters resting inside galvanized utility buckets that hadn't been there twenty minutes ago. The smell hit us an instant later—acrid, synthetic, like burning sugar and cheap sulfur.

Guests coughed. Silk napkins went up over noses. Through the thickening magenta smog, my sister Khloe stepped onto the floor, holding a gold wireless microphone.

She wore a tight blush-pink satin dress that clung to her baby bump. Her cheeks were flushed with pure adrenaline, her eyes locked not on me, but on the three smartphones held aloft by Mom, Tyler, and her best friend seated at Table 4.

“Surprise!” Khloe squeaked, her voice bouncing shrilly off the glass ceiling. She waved her hand to dissipate the cloud around her face, coughing once into her elbow before beaming. “We couldn't wait any longer! Baby girl Adams is making her debut in November!”

A scattered, confused smattering of applause broke out from Tyler’s fraternity friends in the back. The rest of the room sat frozen, stunned by the chemical haze and the sheer audacity of the interruption.

Khloe took three theatrical steps forward, stepping right into the puddle of my train. Her silver stiletto pinned my ivory lace to the parquet.

“And,” Khloe announced, her voice trembling with an ecstasy that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the audience, “because my big sister has always been my biggest supporter, and because Mom and Dad know how hard Tyler and I have been working… Mom gave us the ultimate baby gift.”

She turned, pointing her French-manicured finger directly into my face, smiling like a beauty queen presenting a car on a game show.

“Mom officially gifted us Daniel and Maya’s twelve-day trip to Athens and Santorini! Pack your bags, Tyler—we’re going to Greece!”

Mom stood up at the front table, tears streaming down her makeup, clapping with both hands above her head like she was at an evangelical revival. “You deserve it, baby! You deserve the world!”

Tyler let out a frat-boy whoop from the bar, pumping his fist.

The room was dead silent except for them. Ninety-nine people looked back and forth between Khloe’s glowing face and mine. Daniel’s jaw was set so hard I could see the muscle twitching under his ear. He opened his mouth to speak, but I reached down and laid two fingers across his wrist.

*Don’t,* my touch said. *This is my stage.*

Khloe extended her arms toward me, leaning in for the hug that would cement the moment for Instagram—the tearful, generous elder sister passing the torch of luxury to the glowing mother-to-be.

“Smile, Maya,” she whispered in my ear, her breath smelling of peppermint schnapps. “People are filming.”

I didn't hug her back. I didn't step away.

Instead, I looked over her bare shoulder, past the lingering haze of sulfur-scented pink powder settling over our $800 tiered vanilla-bean cake, and met my mother’s tear-filled, triumphant eyes.

Mom mouthed, *Be generous.*

I reached out, wrapped my fingers around the gold shaft of the microphone Khloe was holding, and squeezed. Khloe tried to keep her grip, but I twisted my wrist with the practiced efficiency of an MC reclaiming a stage from a drunk keynote speaker.

The mic slipped into my hand.