At my sister’s engagement party, she clinked her glass, smiled sweetly and whispered, “You’ll never find anyone.” Everyone laughed. I just sipped my champagne and texted my “imaginary boyfriend”: REJECT HER FIRM. 9 A.M. MONDAY. By Sunday brunch, my sister was sobbing over a brutal email from Northgate Capital, signed by my secret husband. Mom demanded I fix it. I slid a City Hall wedding photo across the table—and watched their faces fall.
The night my sister got officially welcomed into the Windsor family, I stood in the corner of a ballroom named after a duke who’d probably never seen so much white hydrangea in his life.
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