No transition. No explanation. Just white chairs set up in the backyard and a towering wedding cake where my mother used to plant tulips every spring. I watched from the window as Corrine instructed someone to pull those flowers out.

“They’ll ruin the photos,” she said lightly.

“Those were Mom’s,” I told her.

“She loved projects,” Corrine replied sweetly. “But she made this house… complicated. We’re fixing that.”

Guests came, confused but smiling. Some hugged me and whispered that at least my father wouldn’t be alone.

An hour before the ceremony, Corrine cornered me and flashed her ring.

“You should be grateful. Your dad needs someone.”

“My mom’s been gone less than two weeks.”

“This is healing,” she said.

“It looks rushed,” I answered.

My father walked in then.

“Not today, Tessa,” he said sharply when I asked why he couldn’t wait.

That’s when I understood — it wasn’t about grief. It was about choosing her.

I left before I said something unforgivable. I ended up crouched by the side gate, trying not to throw up while champagne glasses clinked behind me.

That’s when Mason found me.

Corrine’s son. Quiet. Watchful.

“Tessa,” he said carefully. “Can we talk?”

He pulled me behind the shed.

“The ring she’s wearing,” he said, voice shaking, “she showed it to me last Christmas.”

My stomach dropped.

“She said your dad picked it out. I saw the box.”