We moved into the west parlor, with blue silk wallpaper and the original 1912 mantel. It was where I handled difficult clients—quietly, cleanly, without turning conflict into a spectacle. Marcus closed the doors, leaving just me, Vanessa, Trevor, and our mother.

Vanessa stayed standing.

Too angry to sit. Too shaken to pace. Too proud to apologize without trying one more angle.

Right on cue, she crossed her arms. “I don’t know what kind of point you think you’re making—”

“I’m not making a point,” I said. “I’m reviewing a contract.”

That stopped her.

I sat at the walnut table and opened the event file. The room shifted—from family space to business negotiation.

Trevor spoke first. “What are our options?”

Smart.

I looked at him. “The wedding proceeds. Or I invoke the venue’s termination clause due to abusive conduct toward ownership and material concealment affecting the event relationship.”

Vanessa stared. “Material concealment?”

“Yes. You banned the property owner from attending while presenting the booking as a family event requiring full cooperation. That matters.”