She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Marco? Hi, it’s Sarah.”
“Sarah! My favorite client,” Marco, the head of Delizia Catering, answered cheerfully. “We are prepping the wagyu beef right now. Just so you know, your mother called and demanded we switch the dessert to crème brûlée last minute. I told her it would cost extra, but since it’s you…”
“Marco,” Sarah cut him off gently. Her voice was calm, terrifyingly level. “Cancel it.”
There was a silence on the line. “I’m sorry?”
“Cancel the order. All of it. The wagyu, the wine, the staff, the linens. Everything.”
“Sarah,” Marco laughed nervously. “The event is in 30 hours. The contract says full payment is due upon cancellation within 48 hours. You’d still have to pay the full twenty thousand.”
“I know,” Sarah said. “Charge my corporate card for the cancellation fee. I’d rather pay for empty air than for food that won’t be eaten.”
“But… your parents? The guests?”
“My parents informed me there isn’t enough space at the venue,” Sarah said, examining her fingernails. “If there’s no space for the client who holds the contract, then logically, the event cannot proceed. Please send the cancellation confirmation to my email. Do not call my parents. I will handle the communication.”
“Okay…” Marco sounded stunned. “If you’re sure. No trucks will roll out.”
“Thank you, Marco.”
She hung up.
Next, the venue.
“Hi, David. It’s Sarah regarding the estate rental for tomorrow night… Yes. Terminate the lease agreement. I’m exercising the ‘Force Majeure’ clause—personal emergency. I understand I lose the deposit. That’s fine. Lock the gates.”
Next, the florist.
“Jean-Luc? Don’t cut those stems. The order is voided.”
Next, the band.
“Keep the deposit, guys. Take the night off.”
For one hour, Sarah Whitaker dismantled the event of the season with the precision of a surgeon performing a lobotomy. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight. She simply invoked the terms and conditions of her own life.
By 12:30 PM, the Whitaker Gala was, on paper, nothing more than an empty room and a quiet driveway.
But the Whitakers didn’t know that.
Sarah checked her personal cell phone. Three missed texts from Jessica.
Jess: Hey sis! Mom said you’re not coming to dinner. Bummer! Can you make sure the photographer knows to get my good side? Also, can you transfer me $500 for a mani-pedi? Need to look perfect!
