Grace’s POV
The entryway was already filled with voices when we they came down the stairs the rest of the way. Their families had turned up at the same time.
My mother, Margo Wilson, stood in the center like a queen holding court, elegant in a tailored blue suit that perfectly complemented her silver-blonde hair. At sixty, she still turned heads, a fact she worked hard to maintain and paid a lot of money. Botox was a beautiful thing in her eyes.
“Hunter,” she exclaimed, air-kissing his cheeks. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you, Margo,” he said politely.
Her eyes landed on me next, assessing. “Grace,” she said, her smile tightening slightly. “That dress is... sensible.”
From Margo, ‘sensible’ was barely a step above ‘hideous.’ I forced a smile. “Hello, Mother.”
“Anyway, your father
