Vivian’s eyes flicked toward the page.
I couldn’t read every line from where I stood, but I could see the record of the Wellington request and the notes attached to it.
Savannah summarized them without theatrics.
The Wellington party wanted my date specifically.
They had been told another event already held the room.
They had increased their proposed spending.
And somewhere during that conversation, the assumption had been made that because the existing bride was related to Vivian, she could be persuaded to move afterward.
Not asked first.
Moved first.
Persuaded afterward.
Clara spoke quietly from behind the desk.
“I told them the reservation was already paid.”
Vivian looked at her sharply.
Clara’s face reddened, but she continued.
“I also said Miss Morgan hadn’t requested any changes.”
That explained the expression she’d had when I arrived.
She hadn’t caused the problem.
She’d been left to deliver it.
Mrs.
Delaney looked toward her.
“Thank you, Clara.”
Then she turned back to me.
“Your wedding stays exactly where it is, on the original date, under the original contract and price.
You’ll have that confirmation in writing before you leave today.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t answer.
I’d spent the entire drive there preparing myself to fight for something I had already bought.
I had expected phone calls, arguments, maybe lawyers.
I hadn’t expected someone simply to look at the contract and say the obvious thing.
It was mine.
Vivian stepped closer to the desk.
“You’re turning down a three-hundred-person event over a technicality?”
Mrs.
Delaney’s expression didn’t change.
“A signed contract is not a technicality.”
“Our event would bring in considerably more money.”
“That is irrelevant.”
Vivian stared at her as if she’d spoken a language Vivian had never encountered.
Money being irrelevant was not a concept my aunt respected.
She looked toward Savannah next.
“And what exactly do you have to do with this?”
Savannah closed the folder halfway.
“I help my mother review Rosewood’s contracts and compliance issues.
She called me when Violet gave Ethan’s name.”
There it was.
The answer to the question that had changed the room.
I looked between them.
“You knew who Ethan was?”
Savannah’s expression softened for the first time.
“He’s my brother.”
I knew that part.
What I hadn’t known was the connection between Savannah and Margaret Delaney.
Savannah explained it before I could ask.
She and Ethan shared a father.
Margaret was Savannah’s mother, not Ethan’s.
Savannah had kept the Carter surname, which was why I had never connected her to Rosewood’s owner.
Ethan had mentioned Savannah dozens of times, but I had never met her.
