Then Margaret, ever the queen, took command. "Amanda, darling," she purred, orchestrating this like a general moving troops across a battlefield, "you look positively glowing. Perhaps you should get some rest before your big day?"
Amanda twisted her engagement ring in the Miami lights—the first time she'd even acknowledged the poor thing all night. "You're absolutely right, Margaret. I should… prepare for tomorrow."
That was Harold's cue. The man perked up like a Labrador hearing a squeaky toy. "Amanda, finally! I've been trying to—"
"Harold," Amanda interrupted with the exhausted tone of someone correcting a child for the fiftieth time, "I'm going to our apartment. Alone. I need to… reflect on some things. Stay and discuss business mergers."
The look Harold shot me could have started a holy war. As if I was personally responsible for his fiancée suddenly discovering she had agency.
