that the contract belonged to me and that I was exercising my cancellation rights.
She processed it.
Then I called the caterer.
The florist.
The photographer.
Four calls.
Twelve minutes.
My voice stayed steady.
My hands didn’t.
Between calls, I pressed my palms against the table and focused on the wood grain beneath my fingers.
Colleen remained quiet.
When I finished the last call, she reached over and squeezed my wrist once.
That was enough.
In twelve minutes, $47,000 worth of Jessica’s wedding disappeared.
Not because I wanted revenge.
