You didn’t feel comfortable here. Not one bit. You’d rather be at home scrubbing floors the way your mama’s had you doing since you could walk — anything but sitting here, dressed up like a doll, making polite conversation with a man old enough to have fought in the last war.

He had a beard — neat, trimmed, respectable. You’d only turned eighteen last week. You weren’t old enough to find beards attractive, and you weren’t foolish enough to pretend. Every time you spoke, he’d chuckle, low and patronizing, correcting you like your daddy sometimes did when he’d had too much pride and too little patience.

He was too old. Too sure of himself. Too everything.

You sat with him at the long folding table under the oak trees, the air thick with barbecue smoke and laughter that didn’t sound real. The church children rolled through the grass in their Sunday shoes, the women fanned themselves with hymn books, and the smell of fried chicken and sweet tea clung to the air.

Your brother Ethan and your father, Tyler, hovered nearby — not close enough to interrupt, but close enough that you could feel their eyes. You knew this broke your father’s heart. You could see it in the way he kept adjusting his hat, trying not to look your way. And your brother—his jaw was tight, his fists in his pockets, like he’d rather fight this man than shake his hand.

Still, it was “the way of things.” You were eighteen. Old enough to marry. Old enough to be traded for stability and respectability, just like Mama said.

You’d already forgotten the man’s name. Tony… Tony Michaels, that was it.

Tony noticed your silence and, with a confident little smile, placed a hand on your back — gentle but heavy.

“Would you like to take a walk with me, dear? I can tell you’re overwhelmed.”

Before you could answer, your mother, Amber, chimed in brightly, her pearls catching the light.

“She would!”

Tony’s eyes slid toward her, his tone steady but edged.

“I was asking her, ma’am.”

Your mama shot you a look sharp enough to cut glass — that look that said say yes, now. But before the word could leave your lips, your father stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the table.

“I actually need to borrow my daughter for a moment,” he said, voice calm but firm. Then to you, softer: “You comin’, or you stayin’?”