Chapter 3: Wearing My Life

The cocktail hour took place on the east terrace. A jazz quartet played softly while servers carried silver trays of oysters through the crowd. I stood near a stone railing with a glass of sparkling water that had already gone flat.

From there, I could see Sloan performing for Daniel’s relatives.

She moved through them with the smooth confidence of a politician. She laughed, listened, touched arms, lowered her voice at exactly the right moments. I was trying to stay invisible when the noise around me dipped just enough for her voice to reach me.

“I put myself through school,” Sloan said modestly. “Community college first, then State. I worked nights at a steakhouse. Nobody handed me anything.”

My fingers tightened around my glass.

Those were my words.

That was my life.

Sloan had dropped out of college after three semesters and spent the next two years drifting around Charleston on my parents’ money.

“And the engineering work?” Daniel’s great-aunt asked. “Structural engineering, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sloan said smoothly. “Mostly commercial inspections through a small firm, but it means a lot to build something real.”

For a moment, I could not breathe.

My firm. My degree. My license. My years of concrete dust, bridge inspections, late nights, and impossible exams.

My sister was standing in a five-thousand-dollar wedding gown, wearing my life like another borrowed dress.

“Daniel is lucky,” the aunt said. “A woman who made herself like that is rare.”

“I believe people should earn their place,” Sloan replied.

I set my glass down and crossed the terrace.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked.

Sloan sighed like I had interrupted something important. “Make it quick.”

“I heard you. You told her you put yourself through engineering school. You told her you are a structural engineer.”

Sloan picked up a macaron and examined it as if I were boring her.

“Brooke, you’re imagining things again.”

“I am not imagining my own resume. You dropped out. That degree is mine.”

Her bride mask slipped.

“You are standing at my wedding in a dress that makes you look like an unstable crossing guard,” she said, raising her voice just enough for nearby guests to hear. “And now you’re making accusations? Stop being dramatic.”

She leaned closer. Her breath smelled like champagne.

“This is why nobody takes you seriously. Look at yourself.”

Then she smiled again and floated back to her new family.

I stood beside the dessert table, humiliated in orange fabric.

It was not only a lie. It was a trap.

She had made me look ridiculous first, so if I objected, I would look exactly like the unstable sister she had described.

I turned toward the restroom, but my mother intercepted me near the coat check.

“Whatever paranoid nonsense you just said to your sister, stop it now,” Diane hissed.

“Why is Sloan telling Daniel’s family she has my engineering license?”

“Keep your voice down.” My mother’s eyes darted around. “The Whitlocks expect certain things. Sloan needed a self-made story. These old families judge people.”

“She told them she is a structural engineer.”

“She told them what they needed to hear,” Diane snapped. “And she told them enough about you so they’d understand why you two aren’t close.”

My stomach tightened.

“What did she say about me?”

“That you’ve struggled,” my mother said, looking away. “That you have issues. That the distance between you and Sloan is because of your problems.”

“Mom, I own a company. I have a license.”

“And no one here needs to know that!” she said. “This is the most important day of your sister’s life. Do not make it fall apart.”

Then she walked away.

I leaned against the cold marble column.

They had not only pushed me out of photographs. They had rewritten me. I was the unstable sister in Sloan’s story, the excuse that made my absence from her stolen life make sense.

The orange dress was not a prank.

It was a costume for the role they had assigned me.

I was about to get my keys and leave when a voice came from the shadows.

“You are the one who actually graduated from the engineering program at State, aren’t you?”

I turned sharply.

Margaret Whitlock sat on a velvet bench near the window, her pearl-handled cane across her lap.

“I’m sorry?” I said.