The velvet curtains in the foundation’s back office always smelled like old money and quiet desperation. I’d spent countless hours here methodically building spreadsheets while my mother and sister collected accolades for transforming our city’s art scene. Today, the familiar scent made my stomach turn.

“Darling, your live stream auction concept is inspired,” my mother said, not looking up from her tablet. But it needs that special something to really capture attention. She tapped her manicured nails against the mahogany conference table, a rhythm that had haunted my childhood. Kayla lounged in her chair, already dressed for tonight’s gallery opening.

“Mom’s right, Abby. Nobody cares about boring corporate sponsorships anymore. We need something personal, something that’ll get people talking.” I should have seen it coming. The way they exchanged glances, how Reagan, our PR specialist, wouldn’t meet my eyes. The foundation’s boardroom suddenly felt airless despite the soaring ceilings.

“We’re going to auction your wedding date,” my mother announced. “The highest bidder gets to choose when you and Ethan tie the knot. Think of the publicity, love for the arts, foundation. It puts marriage in the public’s hands.” Ethan’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing tight. I focused on his touch, warm and steady, while bile crept up my throat.

“The streaming numbers will be incredible,” Kayla gushed. “We can do reaction videos, behind-the-scenes content, maybe even a countdown show.”

“I don’t—” I started, but mother cut me off with a wave.

“It’s perfect, really. You’ve always been so private. This will help you connect with our donor base.” The way she said “private” made it sound like a character flaw.

“Besides, you haven’t set a date yet, have you?”

“We were thinking spring,” Ethan said quietly. His grip tightened, and I knew he was remembering our real plans, the small ceremony we’d discussed—just us and a few close friends. Reagan cleared her throat.

“The legal team can draw up the necessary contracts. We’ll need to move quickly to announce before the Harrison Foundation’s benefit next month. Wonderful.”

Mother said, “Kayla, you’ll handle the media rollout. Abigail, make sure all the technical details for the stream are sorted. We can’t have any glitches.” I nodded mechanically, watching my sister pull up her contacts list. She was already texting influencers, her face glowing with excitement.

The same face that had beamed at cameras while accepting awards for arts programs I’d developed, taking credit for grants I’d written deep into the night.

“Oh, and we’ll need to revisit your dress choice,” mother added. “Something more telegenic. The Vera Wang was lovely, but it won’t pop on screen.”

The wedding dress I’d chosen myself, of course.

“I’ll handle the wine selection for the reception,” I heard myself say. My voice sounded distant, controlled.

“I know a boutique distributor who’s been eager to work with the foundation.”

Mother barely nodded, already discussing camera angles with Reagan. Only Ethan noticed the slight tremor in my hands as I made a note to contact Brooke about those special labels we discussed.

“Meeting adjourned,” mother announced, standing. “Kayla, walk with me. We need to discuss your speech for tonight’s opening.” They swept out together, trailing expensive perfume and self-satisfaction. Reagan followed, tablet clutched to her chest like armor. When the door clicked shut, Ethan turned to me.

“We don’t have to do this.”

I touched the delicate pendant at my throat. The one piece of jewelry I own that hadn’t been chosen by my mother.

“Yes, we do.”

I met his eyes, but not the way they expect. He studied my face for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“Nash, I’ll call him tonight and Brooke.”

I stood smoothly in my skirt. “They want to make a spectacle of my wedding. Fine, but they’re going to learn that not everything that looks pristine on the surface stays that way once you uncork it.” The velvet curtains whispered as we left. Their familiar musty scent now tinged with something else. Something that smelled like revenge.

Kayla’s laughter ricocheted off the foundation’s marble floors. A sound like breaking crystal. She was holding court near the massive peony arrangements. Their cloying sweetness making my head swim. A cluster of society wives hung on her every word.

“Can you believe it? My little sister finally stepping into the spotlight.” She caught my eye across the lobby and raised her champagne flute. “To Abigail, who’s making the ultimate sacrifice for the arts.” The responding titters made my skin crawl. I clutched my tablet tighter and slipped out the side entrance, texting Nash that I was running 5 minutes late.

The cafe was three blocks away, far enough from the foundation’s usual haunts that I could breathe easier. Nash sat in a corner booth, two espressos waiting. He stood when I approached, his smile nothing like the ingratiating ones I’d grown up watching.

“You look like you could use this,” he said, sliding one cup toward me as I sat.

I took a scalding sip, letting the bitterness ground me. “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.”

“When the daughter of the woman who publicly rejected my firm’s proposal calls, I make time.” He leaned back, studying me. “Though I admit I’m curious about the urgency. You remember the rejection meeting?”

The espresso burned my tongue, but I welcomed the pain.

“When my mother said your vision was too, what was the word?”

“Provincial,” Nash supplied.

“Right before your sister suggested I focus on community theater instead of real arts funding.” I set down my cup.

“What if I told you I could help you acquire controlling interest in the foundation’s endowment fund?”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “I’d say that sounds impossible given the board structure.”

“The auction,” I said. “My wedding date auction. The proceeds will be substantial. Mother’s already fielding calls from half the city’s elite, but the money needs to flow through a separate entity for tax purposes.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes.

“A shell corporation. One that you own, but with me as the visible director.” I pulled out my tablet, showing him the foundation’s financial projections. “The auction funds would give your firm significant leverage, especially once certain irregularities and the foundation’s past dealings come to light.”

Nash’s fingers drummed once on the table. “Irregularities your mother and sister don’t know you know about.”

“Amazing what you can find when you’re the only one who actually reads the quarterly reports.” I swiped to another screen. “There’s more. The auction reception will feature an exclusive wine label. The bottles will have QR codes that appear decorative but actually link to a secure server containing everything. Grant misappropriations, manipulated artist selections, kickbacks from certain galleries.”

I met his gaze enough to end their monopoly on this city’s art scene.

He studied me for a long moment. “Why now?”

“Because I’m tired of watching them take credit for my work while treating me like a prop.” The words came out sharper than intended. “They think they can auction off my wedding date like it’s another piece of art for their collection.”

“And your fiancé?”

“Ethan’s with me. He’s seen how they operate.”

I finished my espresso, the bitterness lingering. “They’ve undermined him at every turn, suggested he’s not cultured enough for the family.”

Nash pulled out his phone, typed briefly. “I’m sending you secure contact details for my legal team. We’ll need to move fast to set up the corporation before the auction announcement. I can have the documentation ready by tomorrow.”

“Your mother and sister, they really have no idea you’re capable of this, do they?”

I thought of Kayla’s tinkling laugh. My mother’s dismissive waves. “They see what they want to see. The quiet daughter. The reliable one who handles the boring details. Their mistake.”

Nash stood, straightening his jacket. “I’ll have my team draw up the preliminary paperwork. And Abigail,” he paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to make an excellent director.”

Outside, I could hear distant laughter from the foundation’s direction, where my sister was probably still holding court among the peonies. Let them laugh. Soon they’d learn that some flowers, when crushed, release poison instead of perfume.

I pulled up my phone to text Brooke about the wine labels. Everything was falling into place, piece by careful piece. The seller air hung thick with the earthy scent of aging wine, a stark contrast to the sterile foundation offices above.

Brooke moved between the racks with practiced ease, running her fingers along the bottles we’d selected.

“Your sister called again,” she said, pulling down a 2018 Cabernet. “Wanted to make sure we’re using the right vintages for her social media coverage.”

I snorted, carefully applying another label. “Did you tell her these are all small-batch, Instagram-worthy selections that’ll make her look sophisticated?”

“Of course, she ate it up.” Brooke set the bottle on our workstation.

“Though I still can’t believe they’re auctioning off your wedding date. That’s next-level toxic.”

The label maker hummed, printing another batch of our specially designed stickers. Each one featured an intricate pattern that, when scanned, would lead to a server filled with carefully documented evidence.

“Hold this steady,” I said, positioning the next label. The adhesive had to be perfect. No bubbles or creases to suggest tampering.

“Reagan’s sending the final guest list tomorrow. We’ll need at least 300 bottles.”

Brooke helped me align the label, and the wax seals, red like my mother insisted, because apparently everything had to coordinate with the foundation’s branding.

I reached for the melting pot where the sealing wax bubbled. But we modified the formula. It’ll crack clean when they open the bottles, leaving the QR codes intact. The rich smell of melted wax mixed with the wine seller’s mineral tang as I dipped the first bottle. The seal would look flawless.

“My mother taught me the importance of appearances, after all.”

“Your tech guy confirmed the server’s secure?” Brooke asked, prepping the next bottle.

“Nash’s team handled it. Once the story breaks, every financial reporter in the city will have access.”

The wax dried to a perfect crimson sheen, including proof of how they blocked your distribution company from major contracts.

Brooke’s hands stilled on the bottle she was holding. “That would change everything for my business.”

“I know.” I set the finished bottle in the rack. “Considerate thanks for helping me change everything for mine.”

We worked in comfortable silence. The repetitive motion of the label, wax, dry, becoming almost meditative. Each bottle was another piece of ammunition. Another crack in my family’s carefully constructed facade.

My phone buzzed. A text from Ethan. “Your mother just called. Wants to discuss the wedding menu.”

I texted back one-handed while sealing another bottle.

“Let me guess. She hates our choices. Says they’re too pedestrian for the foundation’s image. Wants to bring in some celebrity chef.”

The wax dripped, nearly missing the bottle’s neck. I studied my hand, remembering all the times they dismissed Ethan’s common tastes. “Tell her we’ll think about it. Need to focus on auction prep right now.”

“Already did. Love you. Stay strong.”

Brooke glanced at my phone. “They’re really going all out on controlling every detail, huh?”

“They can’t help themselves.” I reached for another bottle, but they never bothered to learn about wine production, or accounting, or digital security. Too mundane for them. Their loss.

Brooke held up a finished bottle, examining the seal. “These really are beautiful, you know.”

“No one would ever suspect.”

I ran my fingers over the smooth wax surface. “That’s the point. They taught me well. Everything has to be perfect on the outside.”

The seller’s climate control hummed, keeping the wines at their ideal temperature. Soon, these bottles would be arranged on elegant tables, served to the city’s elite while they bid on my wedding date. Each pour would bring us closer to exposure.

“Last batch,” Brooke said, setting up more bottles. “Want to celebrate with a glass when we’re done? I’ve got a nice Malbec that’s definitely not going to the gala.”

I smiled, reaching for the label maker. “Perfect. Something honest for a change.”

The wax continued to melt red as revenge, while we sealed truth into every bottle above us.

I could imagine my mother and sister planning their grand auction. Never suspecting that their undoing would be served in crystal glasses of their own choosing.

The gallery hummed with expensive perfume and practiced laughter, crystal stemware catching the candlelight like trapped stars. I watched from near a Monet my mother had acquired last spring, tracking her progress through the crowd. She moved like a shark, all smooth grace and hidden teeth.

“Your mother’s really outdoing herself?” Ethan murmured, sliding his hand to the small of my back.

I counted three state senators and a tech billionaire in the last 10 minutes.

I leaned into his touch, grateful for its steadying warmth against the gallery’s artificial chill. “All here to bid on our future.”

“To bid on what they think is our future,” he corrected softly.

Across the room, Kayla twirled for the live stream cameras, her designer gown catching the light.

“And here we have the couple of the hour,” she trilled, gesturing for us to join her. “My darling sister and her fiancé, whose special day will support the arts in our beautiful city.”

“Ethan’s hand pressed slightly firmer against my back as we approached. Support and warning in one touch.”

“How are the viewer numbers?” I asked, perfecting the slight tremor in my voice that they’d expect.

“Through the roof,” Kayla beamed at the camera. “And the bidding hasn’t even started.”

Speaking of which, she touched her earpiece. “They’re ready for us in the main hall.”

The crowd drifted toward the auction space, crystal glasses clinking like wind chimes. I watched them sample our special vintage, each sip bringing them closer to truth without knowing it. Reagan materialized at my elbow, tablet in hand.

“Interesting development,” she said quietly. “We’ve had a last-minute registration from a private investment group. Very substantial preliminary offer.”

“Oh, I sit my Chardonnay, letting its metallic crispness ground me. Mother must be pleased.”

“She’s intrigued.” Reagan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The entity was incorporated quite recently.”

Before I could respond, the lights dimmed. My mother took the podium, resplendent in midnight blue silk.

“Distinguished guests, generous patrons of the arts, welcome to this historic evening.”

I half listened to her practice speech, watching the auction interface light up on the massive screens. Initial bids started flowing in. Six-figure sums offered casually as cocktail orders.

Then Nash’s entity entered the fray.

“2 million,” the automated voice announced.

The crowd tittered excitedly.

“2.5,” countered the tech billionaire.

“3 million.” Nash’s bid landed like a gauntlet. Kayla practically vibrated with glee work in the live stream audience.

“The tension is incredible, viewers.”

Who could have imagined such passion for the arts, and of course, for my sister’s happiness? I felt Reagan watching me, her professional smile slipping slightly. She’d always been too observant for my family’s good.

“5 million,” Nash’s entity declared.

The room collectively gasped. Mother’s perfectly composed face showed a flicker of something—greed, concern, before smoothing over.

“Such generosity,” she purred into the microphone. “The foundation is truly blessed.”

“6 million.” The tech billionaire tried again.

“8 million.” Nash’s response was immediate.

Reagan touched my arm. “Abigail, that investment group, their bidding pattern seems almost personal.”

I met her gaze steadily. “Everything about this evening is personal, isn’t it?”

“That’s what mother wanted.”

She started to respond, but Kayla’s squeal cut through the tension.

“10 million.” An anonymous bid of $10 million.

The room erupted in excited chatter. I watched my mother’s hands tighten on the podium. Saw the calculating look in her eyes.

All that money flowing through channels she thought she controlled.

“Going once,” she announced, voice honey-sweet.

“Going twice.”

Ethan’s hand found mine, squeezing gently. Across the room, Nash raised his wine glass slightly in my direction.

“SOLD to bidder number 47 for $10 million.”

Applause thundered through the gallery.

Kayla rushed to embrace me, cameras following her every move.

“This is incredible,” she gushed. “The foundation’s biggest single donation ever.”

“Yes,” I said, watching my mother direct the staff to open more of our special wine for a celebratory toast. “It certainly is.”

Reagan stood back, frowning at her tablet.

“Let her suspect,” I said. “By the time she figured it out, it would be too late.”

The crystal glasses clinked again, a sound like breaking ice.

Soon they’d all see what lay beneath the surface of this perfect evening.

The reception area buzzed with post-auction energy, waitstaff weaving through clusters of guests with practiced grace. I watched a pastry chef torch the crème brûlée. The smell of caramelizing sugar sharp and accurate in the air.

My phone vibrated.

“Brooke, it’s happening. Check your socials.”

Sure enough, phones were out everywhere. Guests admiring the wine bottles’ artistic labels. Each flash of a camera meant another potential scan. Another digital breadcrumb leading to the truth.

“These labels are gorgeous,” a lifestyle influencer gushed nearby, positioning her phone just so. “The pattern is so intricate, very on-brand for the foundation.”

If she only knew. My phone buzzed again.

“Marina from the City Tribune. Need to meet. Have questions about foundation financials. Urgent.”

I typed back: “Tomorrow. Café on 4th, 7 a.m.”

“Abigail,” my mother’s voice cut through the chatter. She stood alone by the dessert station, looking almost human in the soft lighting.

“Quite an evening,” she remarked.

I picked up a spoon, cracking through the crystallized sugar on a crème brûlée.

“$10 million. A record, right?”

“Yes,” she watched me sample the dessert. “Interesting timing. That final bidder. A newly formed investment group. I hear the custard was too sweet, coating my tongue like guilt.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I was too busy being auctioned off.”

“Don’t be dramatic, darling. This is about the foundation’s future.”

She selected a chocolate-dipped strawberry, examining it like evidence.

“Though I admit I’m curious about your sudden engagement with our mission.”

“Public,” yes, I said, the words tasting bitter as burnt sugar. “But calculated.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Reagan tells me you’ve been spending time in the wine cellar with that distributor friend of yours, Brooke.”

“She’s helping coordinate the reception wine. Your idea, remember?”

“Red would match the foundation’s branding,” I said lightly, remembering years of practice.

Kayla agreed it would look better in photos.

“She certainly knows how to work a room,” my mother remarked as we watched Kayla hold court near the string quartet.

Phones flashed constantly around her, each one potentially capturing our coated labels.

“She’s always been a natural,” I said, the words tasting bitter as burnt sugar.