Over the next six months, I watched him fold himself into my family with alarming ease. My father liked his confidence. My mother loved his polish. Ivy loved the way he made life feel cinematic. Logan sent orchids on birthdays, knew how to order wine without glancing at the list, and wore success the way actors wear expensive costumes in movies about Manhattan.
He also never once asked me a question without already assuming the answer.
Then came the engagement party.
The invitation arrived on heavy cream cardstock, embossed in gold, with a script font dramatic enough to announce a royal wedding. Vineyard outside the city. Cocktail attire. Sunset toast. Live string quartet.
