My Future Son Called His Mistress Mom, So I Canceled the Wedding

The ballroom smelled like roses.

White ones. Hundreds of them, twisted into an arch at the far end of the room and spilling over every centerpiece. I had picked those roses myself in August, standing in the florist's cooler with my phone pressed to my ear while Miles told me to go with whatever made me happy.

Under that arch, greeting guests in my spot, stood Sloane.

Her gown was ivory lace, fitted to the hip, sewn with tiny crystals that caught the chandelier light every time she moved. Miles stood beside her in his charcoal suit, shaking hands, his palm resting on the small of her back.

She was holding the seating chart. My seating chart. I could see the gold calligraphy from across the room, except the top line no longer read *Brooke & Miles*. Someone had pasted a fresh card over it.

"Is that the bride?" a woman near the bar whispered.

"I thought it was the Seabrook girl," her husband said.

"Then why is she wearing white?"

Sloane leaned toward an older couple, her smile warm and practiced. "Brooke needs some space tonight. Miles and I are taking care of everything."

The couple nodded sympathetically, like I was sick.

I looked past them, through the open ballroom doors and down into the lobby. The wall above the fireplace was bare. A pale rectangle marked where my mother had hung for thirty years, the paint around it faded by three decades of sunlight.

Something heavy dropped through my chest.

Tessa found me at the edge of the room, breathless. "Side corridor," she said. "I'm sorry, Brooke. I couldn't stop them."

I was already moving.

The service corridor ran along the east side of the ballroom, narrow and too bright. Two maintenance guys stood beside a ladder, and between them, Miles had both hands wrapped around the gilded frame of my mother's portrait.

It was still hooked to the temporary bracket they'd set it on. One of the metal fasteners hadn't been released.

"Wait," the younger guy said. "Mr. Calloway, the hanger's still—"

Miles yanked.

The frame tore free with a sound like snapping bone. The metal hook dragged across the back of the canvas and ripped clean through the edge, a jagged split running up beside Mom's shoulder. Gold leaf flaked off the corner. Splinters of old wood scattered across the tile at my feet.

"Stop!"

Miles turned. For half a second he looked caught. Then his face smoothed over.

"Brooke. You weren't supposed to be here tonight."

I stared at the tear in the canvas. Her painted hand was still resting on the blueprints. Her smile was still soft.

In the hospital, near the end, she'd gripped my fingers so hard her rings pressed into my skin. "Promise me you'll remember who you are," she'd said. "Even when people tell you otherwise. Especially then."

In my last life, I'd stood in a hallway like this one while Miles told me the portrait was an outdated decoration and I shouldn't get in Sloane's way. I'd swallowed it. I'd said okay. I'd gone home and cried in the shower so he wouldn't hear.

"It's just an old painting, Brooke," Miles said now, sighing. "Your mother isn't coming back."

I walked up and took the frame out of his hands.

It was heavier than I expected. He let go mostly from surprise.

"Put that ladder away," I told the maintenance guys. "Nobody touches anything else in this corridor."

They looked at Miles.

"I own this hotel," I said quietly. "Look at me, not him."

The older one nodded and folded the ladder.

"Tessa, can you photograph all of this? The hook, the frame, the floor. Every angle."

She already had her phone out.

Miles laughed under his breath. "You're making a crime scene out of a wall hanging."

"You damaged property that doesn't belong to you," I said. "So yes."

I carried the portrait back into the ballroom because I didn't trust leaving it anywhere he could reach. That was a mistake, or maybe it wasn't. Every head turned.

Miles caught up to me under the rose arch. He didn't lower his voice this time.

"Brooke, you owe Sloane an apology." He gestured at the room like it proved his point. "She's been working nonstop for this event. The flowers, the vendors, the guest list. You disappeared, and she stepped up."

"I didn't disappear. I canceled."

Sloane drifted over, crystals glittering, her hem brushing the broken corner of the frame I'd leaned against the stage. She pressed her fingers to her collarbone.

"I never wanted your place," she said, eyes shining. "I swear, Brooke. I only wore this because the dress was already paid for, and I didn't want the evening to fall apart."

"The dress you texted me a photo of an hour ago?"

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Miles put his hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and I remembered the first time he walked me through this ballroom. Mom had still been alive. He'd pulled me under the chandelier and said, "On our wedding day, I won't look at anyone else. Not once. You'll be the only person in the room."

Now I stood in the room I'd planned for us, in jeans and a coat I'd thrown on in a panic, and every guest was looking at me like I'd crashed the party.

Miles leaned close. His cologne was the one I'd bought him for his birthday.

"Keep this up and see what happens," he said, low enough that only I could hear. "If you walk away from this wedding, don't expect me to keep saving your hotel. Harbor Line pulls out, and you'll be lucky to make payroll by spring."

Last time, that threat would have worked.

I stepped around him, walked to the podium beside the stage, and picked up the microphone.

It gave a sharp squeal of feedback. The room went silent.

"Good evening, everyone. I'm Brooke Seabrook." My voice came back at me from the speakers, steadier than I felt. "I'm sorry you came out tonight under the wrong impression. Miles and I are no longer engaged. There will be no wedding on Saturday."

A ripple went through the tables. Someone set down a glass too hard.

"Sloane Parker is not a member of my family or my staff," I went on. "She has no authority to host any wedding event in this hotel, in my name or anyone else's."

On the nearest table, a place card with my name in gold script sat beside an empty chair. I turned it face down.

Then I handed the microphone back to the stunned DJ and waved Tessa over.

On the drive here, Eleanor had emailed me everything I'd asked for. I'd had the front desk print it while I was looking for the portrait. Tessa passed me the folder, and I pulled out the first page.

"This is the formal cancellation for the wedding block," I said. "All bookings, deposits, and vendor contracts get handled according to the terms. Refunds go back to whoever paid. Nothing gets charged to the hotel."

Tessa read it and nodded. "I'll process it tonight."

I took out the second document, the one with Mom's signature from years ago and mine beneath it. "Ownership and management authority for Seabrook House. Starting now, nothing in the public areas changes without written approval from me or management I've designated. No paintings come down. No walls get redone. Nobody hangs anything new over that fireplace."

"Understood," Tessa said, and something in her face relaxed, like she'd been waiting a long time for someone to say it.

A gray-haired man in a navy blazer stood up from table four. I recognized him from the investor deck. Richard Thornquist.

"Miles," he said, "I'd like some clarity. Is the Seabrook partnership still moving forward or not?"

Miles opened his mouth.

I answered first. "I haven't approved any transfer of control, Mr. Thornquist. I haven't signed the restructuring agreement, and I won't. I also never authorized anyone outside this company to present my mother's original designs. My attorney sent notice this afternoon."

Thornquist looked at Miles for a long moment. Then he sat back down and took out his phone.

Miles's fingers had closed around a champagne flute so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The glass trembled.

"This is my mother's hotel," I said to him. "And you are no longer authorized to speak for it."

He didn't answer. Beside him, Sloane had stopped crying. She was watching Thornquist type.

I turned to the maintenance guys, who were hovering by the doors. "Wrap the portrait in a protective sleeve and send it to Delancey Art Conservation first thing tomorrow. Tessa has the details. I want it handled like it's the most valuable thing in this building."

"Because it is," Tessa said.

They slid the torn canvas carefully into a padded sleeve. I watched until my mother's face disappeared inside it.

Then I walked past Sloane. Her lace skirt brushed my knee. I didn't look at her, and I didn't look back at the arch.

The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet. I made it three steps before my phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

Miles.

*You want to play owner? Fine. By Monday, everyone who matters will know you can't run that hotel on your own. Not for a single day.*