"Exchange rings," the priest said. Fern slipped the thin band over the gloved fingers sitting limp on the wheelchair. "Congratulations," someone clapped. The sound came flat and too loud in the hotel ballroom. "My daughter is generous," Mrs. Hayes announced to the circle of relatives. Her smile had teeth. "She signed the papers. The debts are settled." "How fortunate," an aunt said, like a verdict. "Fortunate for who?" a cousin muttered loud enough for several to hear. Fern kept her face neutral. She heard every whisper as if it were being recorded. "You're trembling," the stylist said when she reached the edge of the crowd. Her fingers brushed Fern's elbow. "Breathe. You look beautiful." "I feel like I'm acting," Fern said. She let the words land as an ordinary complaint. The stylist laughed and adjusted the veil. "Act well. Act sells," Mrs. Hayes said, leaning closer. "Gideon is old money. This is prestige on a platter." "What does he say?" someone asked. "He never attends?" "A health reason," Mrs. Hayes said, giving the story a smooth finish. "Better that way. Scandal stays contained." Aunt Harriet wagged her fan. "You get used to odd arrangements when money is involved." Fern matched their tone with a smile they could catalog and recall later. She listened until a memory slid under the chatter and pushed itself forward. Two nights before, in the cramped kitchen she called home, Mrs. Hayes had told her, "Sign the agreement. Keep the bracelets, and we