At 7:30 PM on Friday night, Luke and I walked into the grand ballroom of the Peachtree Country Club in Atlanta.
Because Luke’s uncle happened to be a long-standing member of the club, we didn't even have to sneak in. We stood near the back pillars alongside Elena. The room was packed with eighty of Atlanta’s wealthiest socialites. Near the center stage stood Ethan—Kelsey’s fiancé—and his parents, Arthur and Eleanor Thornton. Eleanor was a massive donor to the Atlanta Historical Society and was known for two things: old-money Southern grace, and an absolute hatred of liars.
Up on the stage, basking in the spotlight, was Kelsey. She was wearing my butchered Monique Lhuillier gown, cut short above her knees, with a tacky rhinestone belt glued over the waist where Elena had removed my grandmother's lace. Next to her stood my mother, Diane, holding a glass of Dom Pérignon and laughing loudly with Ethan’s aunts.
"Look at that gown," Eleanor Thornton remarked to my mother as Luke and I stepped closer to the front table. "Diane, Kelsey told me you flew to Paris three months ago to have that vintage lace custom-woven for her."
"Oh, nothing but the best for my daughter, Eleanor!" Diane beamed, taking a sip of champagne. "You know how stressful custom couture is, plus covering the catering tonight—it’s easily a thirty-thousand-dollar evening, but family heritage means everything to us."
At that exact moment, the catering floor manager walked right up to the stage holding a wireless payment terminal and a red folder. Behind him, four catering staff members abruptly began wheeling the remaining ice sculptures and unopened bottles of Dom Pérignon toward the kitchen doors.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Diane Miller?" the manager said clearly, right in front of Eleanor and Arthur Thornton. "We have an urgent issue with the $13,700 balance for tonight’s seafood and champagne package. The card owner, Maya Miller, notified corporate that her credit card and catering deposit were used without authorization. Unless you have a valid card to cover the $13,700 right now, we have to shut down the bar and file a theft-of-services report."
The entire front half of the ballroom went dead silent.
Diane’s face turned bright crimson. "What?! That’s ridiculous! Just run this card!" She frantically pulled a Visa out of her clutch and handed it over.
The manager swiped it. The machine let out a loud, sharp BEEP—DECLINED.
"Ma'am, this card is over its limit," the manager said flatly.
Before Diane could speak, Kelsey spotted me standing ten feet away in a sharp black cocktail dress. Her eyes widened in pure panic. "Maya?! What are you doing here?! Did you sabotage my caterer?!"
Every head in the ballroom turned toward me. Eleanor Thornton frowned, looking back and forth between Kelsey and me. "Who is this?"
"I’m Maya, Mrs. Thornton," I said, walking calmly toward the front of the stage. "I’m Kelsey’s older sister. The one she didn't invite tonight—probably because she’s currently wearing my wedding dress."
Kelsey let out a shrill, fake laugh. "She’s crazy! Ethan, my sister has been jealous of us since we got engaged! This dress was made for me!"
"Is that true?" Ethan asked, his voice tight as he looked at the uneven hem and the cheap rhinestone belt Kelsey had glued on herself.
"You don't have to take my word for it, Ethan," I said, nodding toward Elena, who stepped forward holding her tablet, right as two uniformed Fulton County Sheriff’s deputies walked through the ballroom double doors. "This is Elena, the owner of Buckhead Couture Alterations. And these deputies are here with a felony seizure warrant for stolen insured property."
