tickets to Rome, prepaid hotel transfers, two suites near Piazza Navona, a villa outside Positano, a private boat day, restaurant deposits, a photographer, and a shopping appointment Marissa had insisted was “part of the experience.”
All under my card.
All under my name.
I stared at the total for a second.
Then I selected “withdraw authorization.”
A warning appeared.
I read every word.
I confirmed.
My hands were not shaking.
That surprised me.
A text came through from the concierge service in Rome almost immediately.
Ms. Rowan, we received notice of withdrawn payment authorization. Please confirm whether upcoming arrangements for the Rowan party should be canceled.
I typed, Yes. Cancel all services billed to my account.
Then I hesitated.
Another message appeared.
Also, please advise regarding the signed supplemental authorization submitted on May 22. Our accounting office flagged the signature for review.
I frowned.
Signed supplemental authorization?
Before I could reply, Marissa’s voice cut through the terminal.
“Nora! Boarding started. Stop being dramatic.”
I turned.
They were already at the gate.
My father stood with his shoulders squared, pretending nothing had happened. My mother had put on sunglasses indoors. Marissa held her phone at a flattering angle, probably checking whether crying had smudged her makeup.
The first passengers scanned through.
A soft beep. Green light.
Another beep. Green light.
My family stepped forward.
My father scanned first.
Red light.
The gate agent frowned at the screen.
“One moment, sir.”
My mother scanned.
Red.
Marissa scanned.
Red.
The small sound sliced through the air each time.
Marissa’s face changed from irritated to confused to afraid.
“There’s a mistake,” she said.
The agent typed quickly. “I’m sorry. These reservations are no longer valid.”
“What does that mean?” my father demanded.
“Payment authorization was withdrawn by the cardholder. I’m unable to board you on this ticket.”
Marissa made a sound I had never heard from her before. Not a cry. Not a gasp. Something closer to panic cracking through polished glass.
“No. No, that’s impossible. My photographer is landing this afternoon. The villa check-in is tomorrow. Daniel’s parents are meeting us in Rome.”
My father turned toward me.
In another life, I would have flinched.
This time, I looked back.
“Fix it,” he said.
I slipped my phone into my blazer pocket. “No.”
“You vindictive little—”
“Careful,” I said.
He stopped, but only because several people were watching.
My mother hurried toward me, lowering her voice. “Nora, sweetheart, this has gone far enough. Your father lost his temper. Families forgive.”
“He hit me.”
“He was under pressure.”
“From what? My refusal to fund Marissa’s nap?”
My mother’s lips tightened. “Don’t be ugly.”
I almost smiled at that.
I had just been slapped in an airport, but I was the ugly one.
Marissa pushed past her. “You’re jealous. That’s all this is. You can’t stand that people actually choose me.”
The words landed exactly where she aimed them.
For a second, I was sixteen again, standing in a department store dressing room while my mother told me Marissa looked effortless and I looked like I was trying too hard. I was twenty-two, watching my father toast Marissa’s college graduation with a watch I had helped pay for while forgetting mine entirely. I was thirty, sitting alone in a restaurant after my family canceled my
