My parents told me there wouldn’t be “ENOUGH SPACE” for me at the annual family gathering. But then they invited 88 people. All six of my siblings, their families, in-laws, even cousins and friends. I didn’t say a single word. Instead, I ACTED. Hours later, my mother started screaming…

Sarah Whitaker stood in the center of the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan, critically eyeing a floral arrangement that cost more than most people’s cars. She was thirty-two, the owner of Whitaker Events, and widely regarded as the magician of New York’s social scene. She could make rain stop—or at least tent over it in twenty minutes flat. She could find a case of vintage 1996 Dom Pérignon at 3:00 AM. She was a woman who solved problems.

But her biggest problem was currently vibrating on the mahogany table next to her clipboard.

Caller ID: Mom.

Sarah took a breath, steeling herself. She put on her “daughter” voice—a tone that was softer, more apologetic, and significantly weaker than the voice she used to command armies of caterers.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Sarah, finally!” Linda Whitaker’s voice was a high-pitched trill, breathless with feigned exhaustion. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. The florist for the Gala is being difficult. He says he needs a deposit today. Can you believe the audacity?”

“The Gala is tomorrow, Mom,” Sarah said, rubbing her temple. “Most vendors require payment in full a week ago. Who is it?”

“It’s that charming man you used for the Met repast. Jean-Something.”

“Jean-Luc,” Sarah corrected. “I’ll handle it. How much?”

“Six thousand for the centerpieces. Oh, and your father forgot to send the check for the lighting. Could you cover that on your card? We’ll transfer it to you when the trust dividends clear next week.”

They wouldn’t. Sarah knew they wouldn’t. The “trust dividends” were a mythical financial unicorn that the Whitaker family liked to reference but never actually produced. In reality, Robert and Linda Whitaker were asset-rich and cash-poor, living a champagne life on a tap-water budget, heavily subsidized by their eldest daughter’s success.

“Fine,” Sarah said, making a note on her iPad. “I’ll wire Jean-Luc and cover the lighting. That’s another ten thousand, Mom.”

“You’re a lifesaver, darling! I don’t know what we’d do without you.” The praise was quick, sugary, and hollow. “By the way, have you seen Jessica’s dress? She looks stunning. We’re going to debut her engagement to that tech boy tomorrow night.”