“Run it,” I said.
The bartender did not pick it up immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“And add twenty percent.”
His eyebrows rose.
I glanced toward the servers moving in and out of the private room.
They had carried thirty-one dinners, refilled glasses, cleared plates, delivered a custom cake, and handled the tension my family pretended not to see.
The tip was not for the Hartwells.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
The bartender took the card and walked to the terminal.
From the private room, another burst of laughter rose beneath the pendant lights.
Celeste lifted her wineglass.
She believed she had won because I was still sitting quietly.
She had always mistaken silence for surrender.
The payment terminal chirped.
The bartender returned with two receipt copies and placed them in front of me.
“Twenty percent,” he confirmed.
I picked up the pen.
My legal name had always complicated Celeste’s story about me.
