The screen asked if I was sure.
Yes.
A confirmation message popped up. The total reversal amount appeared like a sudden exhale.
Next: the hotel room block. The ballroom itself. The upgraded suite my parents had booked for themselves because the suite had a private balcony and my mother wanted pictures “with the skyline behind us.”
Revoke.
Next: flights.
Victoria’s honeymoon tickets to the Maldives. She’d been giddy when she told me, like a child showing off a shiny toy. She hadn’t asked if I could help cover them. She’d phrased it as a statement: “We’re going to the Maldives, Rachel. Isn’t that so us?”
It wasn’t us.
It was them.
Void.
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