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“Let’s talk about that deposit,” I said, my tone shifting from daughter to CEO. “You used a third-party shell planner because you didn’t want to deal with me directly. Fine. You paid the initial 20% deposit six months ago to secure the date. But per section 4 of the contract you signed, the final $45,000 balance was due exactly 48 hours before the event.”
“I was going to pay it!” Richard lied, his voice trembling. “I was going to write a check on Monday!”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Richard,” I snapped, the ice in my voice finally cracking to reveal the steel beneath. “You ignored six automated invoices. You ignored calls from my billing department. You knew exactly whose company it was. You assumed that because I was your daughter, I would eat the forty-five thousand dollar cost to keep the peace. You thought I was still that terrified little girl who would subsidize your lavish lifestyle just for a pat on the head.”
Richard looked down at the gravel. For the first time in my life, I saw him shrink.
“I was willing to let it slide today,” I confessed, the truth ringing in the cool air. “I was willing to take the loss. For Luke. I was going to serve the food, write it off as a gift, and go home. But then you walked up to me, humiliated me in front of strangers, and kicked the owner of the catering company out of the venue. The charity stops here, Richard. You evicted me. So I’m evicting the food.”
“You can’t do this!” Richard begged. The authoritarian father was gone; standing before me was a desperate, panicked man realizing his entire social standing was about to be obliterated. He took a step toward me, his hands raised in pleading. “Maya, please! There are state senators in there! There are investors for my firm! If we don’t feed them, I’ll be a laughingstock! We have nothing!”
Sandra was actually crying now, real tears ruining her expensive mascara. “Please, Maya. We’re sorry. We’ll write a check right now. Just bring the meat back.”
I looked at Sandra, remembering the sneer on her face just moments ago. How much do you even earn these days?
I smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing.
“I hear the local pizza place delivers,” I said softly. “If you can afford the tip.”
I signaled to Marcus, who was standing by the largest of the box trucks. He nodded. The hydraulic lifts whined loudly, folding up and sealing away the prime rib, the lobster thermidor, the saffron risotto, and the five-tier cake.
The heavy doors of the barn burst open again. The guests were spilling out. They weren’t whispering anymore; they were angry.
I watched a woman in a silver sequined gown—the wife of a major real estate developer—storm up to my father. She was holding an empty crystal champagne flute.
“Richard, what on earth is going on?” she demanded, her voice shrill and unforgiving. “They took the carving stations! My husband is diabetic, he needs to eat! Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, Helen, it’s just a… a logistical error,” Richard stammered, sweating profusely, waving his hands in a frantic attempt to placate her. “We’re sorting it out! Just a slight delay!”
“A delay?” a man in a tuxedo shouted from the porch. “They took the tables, Richard! They took the silverware! What kind of cheap operation are you running here?”
The murmurs of “unprofessional,” “what a disaster,” and “tacky” rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Sandra was hyperventilating, pressing her hands to her cheeks, realizing that the high-society status she had ruthlessly guarded was currently burning to the ground in front of her eyes.
Then, the crowd parted one last time.
Luke stepped out into the night air. He was wearing his tailored tuxedo, his bow tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. He looked at the massive catering trucks pulling away from the loading dock. He looked at the angry, starving guests. He looked at our father’s pale, sweating face, and finally, he looked at me.