“What do you mean they can’t pay?” I asked.

“They thought Vivian’s father was covering the final balance,” Ethan said, his voice unsteady. “Her father says he already paid what he agreed to. Connor says Mom and Dad promised to handle the rest. Mom says she only offered to cover the rehearsal dinner. The venue manager just shut the bar down and won’t reopen anything until someone wires the money.”

In the background, a woman shrieked, “This is humiliating!”

Vivian, I assumed.

Then a man snapped, “You should have read the contract before signing it.”

That was probably her father.

I took another bite of pasta, chewing slowly. “And where do I come in?”

Ethan hesitated—long enough to insult me all over again.

“Connor thinks… maybe you could transfer the money. Just temporarily. We’d pay you back.”

I laughed so hard the couple at the next table turned to look.

“You’re calling the wife you didn’t invite to ask for bailout money at the wedding I was too embarrassing to attend?”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that.”

“Claire, please. Everyone’s losing it.”

I could hear it. The music had stopped completely. Guests murmured. Staff moved quietly, efficiently—the way people do when they’re trained to stay composed around expensive disasters. I pictured Connor in his tux, sweating through his collar. I pictured Vivian, flawless makeup and venom behind her smile. The image was almost satisfying enough to order dessert.

Then Ethan lowered his voice.

“They say if the balance isn’t settled in the next twenty minutes, they’ll start shutting everything down—service, stations—and they may call local deputies if guests try to leave without signing personal liability forms.”

I blinked. So this wasn’t just embarrassment. This was collapse.

“How much?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“Seventy-eight thousand.”

I nearly dropped my fork. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It’s not all of it,” he rushed. “It’s the remaining balance, service charges, alcohol overage, and some add-ons Vivian approved this afternoon.”

“Of course she did.”

“Claire—”

“No. Let me guess. No one wanted to talk about real numbers because everyone wanted to look rich.”

Silence. That was answer enough.

I stood and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking down at a narrow Roman street glowing gold under the lights. My anger had turned cold, precise—almost useful.

“Put Connor on.”

A few seconds later, my brother-in-law came on, breathless and furious.

“Claire, I know this looks bad—”

“This doesn’t look bad, Connor. It is bad.”

“We just need help getting through tonight.”

“You mean you need help. Interesting, considering Vivian made it clear I’d ruin the aesthetic.”

He exhaled sharply. “She was wrong.”