Grayson came at me across the grass, his face gone red.

“What kind of sick spectacle is this, Camille?”

“The kind you arrange,” I said, “when you mail a woman an invitation for the sole purpose of laughing at her.”

Serena was looking at the three children, and then back at her groom, and her voice had gone very careful.

“Grayson.

Are they yours?”

Before he could shape a denial, Delphine had my arm, her manicured fingers digging in, her voice a frantic whisper against my ear.

“Not today, Camille.