Canal Street.

But Tiana carried it like it held classified documents.

Behind her came my mother, Beatrice, dressed in navy and pearls, looking like she was on her way to church if the sermon were about judging other women’s shoes. Her eyes swept over my linen blouse and tailored trousers before she kissed the air near my cheek.

The blouse was from The Row. The trousers cost more than Tiana’s entire outfit, including the fake bag.

But there were no logos.

So to my family, I looked plain.

Connor Sterling came last. Tall. Polished. Navy blazer. Gold buttons. Loafers without socks. He had the specific slouch of a man who had mistaken a lack of consequences for charisma.

Tiana slid into the booth and immediately pulled out her phone.

Not to greet me.

To film herself.

“Hey guys, we’re here at Sarah’s with the fam for a little wedding planning meeting,” she chirped into the screen, using the fake influencer voice she adopted whenever she wanted strangers to believe her life was curated instead of chaotic. “So excited to show you all the details. Stay tuned.”

Then she ended the video, and her smile disappeared.

“You could have dressed up a little, Jazz,” she said. “It’s Sarah’s, not a cafeteria.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “You’re late.”

“Traffic was brutal,” Connor said, sliding beside her.

He snapped his fingers at the waiter.

Actually snapped.

“Garçon,” he said, in a tone that made my spine tighten, “we’ll start with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Vintage, if you have it.”

The waiter’s smile froze politely.

I watched Connor’s wrist as he lifted his hand.

A Rolex Submariner.

Heavy. Glossy.

Wrong.

The second hand ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

A real Rolex glides.

Connor’s watch moved like a cheap secret under bright light.

“So, Francesca,” Connor said, turning his smirk toward me. “Tiana tells me you’re still doing the data entry thing. What is it called again?”

“An actuary.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“It’s risk assessment,” I said. “Financial probability.”

“Right. Data.” He waved one hand dismissively. “I could never do boring office work. In the hedge fund world, you need instinct. You need a gut for big kills. I closed a seven-figure deal last week.”

“That’s impressive,” I said calmly. “Which fund?”

He took a quick drink of water. “Boutique firm downtown. Very exclusive. Old-money clients. You wouldn’t know them.”

Of course I wouldn’t.

Vague liars always hide behind exclusivity when details start asking questions.

My mother patted his arm. “Connor is so talented, Francesca. He’s going to take wonderful care of Tiana.”

Then her eyes sharpened.

“Unlike some men we know.”

That was Malik.

The man she thought fixed printers.

I said nothing.

My mother cleared her throat. “We are not here to talk about work. We’re here for the wedding. Tiana, show your sister the vision.”

Tiana brightened like someone had turned a spotlight on her.

She lifted a massive white binder onto the table. It landed with a thud that made my iced tea tremble. On the cover, in gold glitter letters, were the words:

Tiana and Connor: A Love Eternal.

I stared at it.

Love eternal.

In glitter glue.

She opened the binder with the reverence of a preacher opening a Bible. “Obviously, we booked The Plaza.”

I nearly choked on an ice cube. “The Plaza?”

Connor spread his arms as if he personally owned Fifth Avenue. “Nothing else is good enough for my princess. We need a venue that reflects the Sterling family legacy.”

I looked at his ticking watch and wondered if that legacy came with batteries.

“The deposit is down,” Tiana said quickly, flipping past the venue page before I could ask too many questions. “But the floral design is where we need family support.”