Just an hour before my sister-in-law’s wedding, I went into labor, but my mother-in-law took my phone and locked me in the bathroom, telling me to “be quiet” so as not to distract the bride, and when I woke up in the hospital bed, she begged me not to sue—then my husband came in, announced it, and her face turned pale and trembling.

My twenty-eight-year-old sister-in-law-to-be, Khloe, was marrying into the Thornton political dynasty. Khloe, a white lifestyle influencer who had built a career on looking vaguely stressed in beautiful locations, was currently in full bridezilla mode, clutching a mimosa as she berated a floral designer over the precise shade of a peony. I’m McKenna, thirty-two years old and eight and a half months pregnant, just trying to be useful.

My husband, Marcus—Doris’s son—was busy with the groomsmen, leaving me to navigate the chaos alone. As a marketing director for a medtech startup, I lived my life organizing chaos, so this was second nature. I saw one of the young servers looking overwhelmed, starting to place name cards on the wrong reception table.

I moved carefully toward him, my hand on my swollen belly. The baby was pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe, but I wanted to help. “Hi,” I whispered.

“I think those are for the main family table, the one near the orchestra.”

The server looked at me with immense relief. “Thank you, ma’am. Mrs.

Henderson said she would fire me if I made a single mistake.”

Before I could even smile back, Khloe swept in, her silk robe trailing behind her. “McKenna! Oh my God, what are you doing?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

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