A coastal estate in Malibu, seven weeks out, the kind of wedding that exists to be photographed.

I almost set the phone down.

And then, out of the old careful habit my grandmother had drilled into me, I scrolled to the bottom and read the small grey line most guests would never notice.

Event hosted in collaboration with Rothwell Global Enterprises.

I read it twice.

Rothwell Global Enterprises.

Not Damon’s own firm — a separate company, one I had seen exactly six times in my life, printed at the top of six wire transfer confirmations that had moved money out of the trust my grandmother left me.

I had noticed those transfers weeks earlier, without understanding them, and had handed them to an attorney to look into.