Carlisle's home was alive.
Soft jazz music hummed from ceiling speakers, mingling with bursts of laughter that spilled from the wide glass doors leading to the backyard.
String lights swayed above the garden, glowing amber against the velvet dusk. Balloons—silver and gold—hovered in the air like metallic soap bubbles, and the scent of roasted chicken, honey-glazed sliders, and buttered popcorn lingered in every corner of the house.
Amara's parents had gone all out.
"You'd think it was our wedding," Amara muttered under her breath as she leaned into Celeste's side near the foyer.
Celeste laughed. "If this is your wedding, I need to rethink what I'll wear when I'm your maid of honor."
"You're my maid of life. That's bigger."
A woman in her late forties with sleek hair the same auburn as Amara's made her way toward them. She wore a deep red sheath dress that hugged her frame, and paired it with diamond earrings that caught every glimmer of light.
