At my sister’s wedding, my dad pointed at my black dress in front of 287 guests and joked, “At least you’re dressed for serving drinks.” Everyone laughed. He told his business partners I worked at “some motel in Nevada,” sat me with the catering staff, and suggested I “help out” so I wouldn’t “feel out of place.” So I did. I picked up a champagne bottle, walked table to table, poured their glasses like I was part of the team… in a venue I quietly bought four months earlier. An hour later, the general manager stopped the music, grabbed the mic, and said, “The owner needs to address something.” My dad smirked and asked, “Who?”

I held a finger to my lips.

“I’m just a guest today, Michael. A very low-profile guest.”

He nodded quickly, understanding.

“Of course. I’ll make sure the team knows.”

I walked through the main entrance, past the cascading water feature and the hand-painted tiles, taking in every detail with a practiced eye. The floral arrangements were immaculate—white roses and eucalyptus, exactly as Vanessa had requested. The string quartet was warming up near the ceremony space. Everything was running smoothly.

“Sierra.”

I turned. Marcus Webb, the general manager I’d inherited with the property, stood near the entrance to the main pavilion. Fifty-two, silver-haired, with the calm demeanor of someone who’d managed a thousand high-stakes events. He’d been at the Grand View for eleven years, and when I’d acquired the venue, keeping him on had been non-negotiable. He was also the only person here who knew exactly who I was.

“Marcus.” I shook his hand. “Everything looks beautiful.”

He glanced around, then lowered his voice.

“Your father arrived an hour ago. He’s been making requests.”

“What kind of requests?”

Marcus hesitated.

“He asked us to move your seating assignment.”

My stomach tightened.

“Move it where?”

I found my father holding court near the outdoor bar, surrounded by a cluster of men in expensive suits. I recognized a few faces from Arizona business magazines—the kind of people my father spent his life trying to impress.

Richard Stanton, at sixty-one, still carried himself like a man who believed he was the most important person in any room. Silver hair, perfectly styled. Custom navy suit. The Rolex he’d bought himself after his first million-dollar deal, which he mentioned in every speech he’d ever given.

He spotted me approaching, and something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe, or embarrassment. He quickly rearranged his features into a tight smile.

“Gentlemen, this is my older daughter, Sierra.” He gestured vaguely in my direction. “She works in hospitality somewhere in Nevada.”

One of the men, tall with kind eyes, extended his hand.

“Hospitality? That’s a growing industry. What do you do exactly?”

Before I could answer, my father cut in.

“She’s in the service side of things, you know—hotels, that sort of thing. Making beds, greeting guests.” He chuckled. “Someone has to do it, right?”

The men laughed politely, though I noticed the tall one’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

I shook hands with each of them, keeping my expression pleasant.

“Lovely to meet you all.”

When the group dispersed to find their seats, my father leaned close. His breath smelled like the bourbon he’d been nursing.

“Table fourteen was full,” he said quietly. “I had them move you somewhere more appropriate.”

“Where?”

“Don’t make a scene, Sierra. Just go where they tell you.” He straightened his tie. “And try not to talk to anyone important. This is Vanessa’s day.”