The warehouse looked like something even stray dogs had given up on. I turned off my old Ford and stared through the windshield, willing one black car or one late guest in a suit to appear.
But the silence felt eerie, and after a minute, it stopped feeling like a mistake and started feeling like a message. I checked the text again. Same address. Same cheerful little pin Mark had sent the minute I told him I really did want to come.
It stopped feeling like a mistake and started feeling like a message.
I stepped out into the wind. There was no music, no valet, and no flowers. Just peeling paint, a chained gate, and the slow understanding that my son hadn’t forgotten to invite me properly.
He had sent me here on purpose.
Three weeks earlier, Mark called to say he was marrying Chloe, the daughter of a tech billionaire. I cried happy tears. Then the hints started arriving, dressed up as concern.