Alden Rowe had built his entire existence around the validation found in rooms exactly like this.

I found my assigned seat near the back, shadowed by a massive decorative palm and a speaker disguised with hydrangeas. Table 42 — a space designed for the forgotten.

My place card read simply Maren Rowe. No honorific. No plus-one. No acknowledgment of a life lived beyond that night in the rain. It was perfect.

I had barely pulled out my chair when I felt the pressure in the room shift. Conversations nearby softened into murmurs. Heads turned. A buzzing whisper began to spread.

I followed the collective gaze. My father stood across the dance floor.

Alden Rowe still carried himself with the gravity of a man who expected the earth to adjust its rotation to his schedule — silver hair, a flawless tuxedo, a crystal highball glass resting in his palm.