There was just… the sofa. And the TV. And the lingering smell of the old dog.
“What on earth?” Linda came down the stairs, her sequins catching the light of the regular hallway bulb. “Where is everyone?”
“The staff?” Mrs. Miller asked. “The driveway is empty, Linda.”
Linda’s face went pale. “Jessica, check the kitchen.”
Jessica ran to the kitchen in her heels. She burst back out a moment later, her face a mask of horror. “Mom. The fridge is empty. There’s nothing there. Just a carton of milk and some leftover takeout.”
“What?” Robert roared. “Where is the food? Where is the wine?”
The doorbell rang again. And again.
Cars were lining up in the driveway. A Bentley. A Mercedes. The Senator’s limousine.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Linda’s chest. “Call Sarah.”
“I tried!” Jessica shrieked. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail!”
Robert grabbed the house phone and dialed Delizia Catering. He put it on speaker so everyone, including the confused Millers, could hear.
“This is Marco,” the voice boomed.
“Marco! This is Robert Whitaker! Where the hell are you? We have eighty people standing in my driveway!”
There was a pause on the line.
“Mr. Whitaker? I don’t understand. The contract was cancelled yesterday.”
The silence in the hallway was absolute.
“Cancelled?” Linda whispered. “By who?”
“By the client. Sarah Whitaker. She invoked the cancellation clause. She paid the kill fee and voided the order. She said…” Marco hesitated.
“She said what?” Robert barked, sweat beading on his forehead as he saw the Senator walking up the path.
“She said that since there wasn’t ‘enough space’ for the payer, there wasn’t enough budget for the party. She was very specific, Mr. Whitaker. She said to ensure no trucks arrived.”
Robert dropped the phone. It clattered against the hardwood floor.
Outside, the noise of car doors slamming and confused chatter was growing louder. Eighty-eight of New York’s elite were currently standing on the front lawn, in their finest jewelry, waiting to be let into a house that contained nothing but three panicked narcissists and a box of crackers.
“Do something, Robert!” Linda screamed, her composure shattering. She grabbed a vase from the console table and hurled it at the wall. “Fix this!”
“I can’t!” Robert yelled back. “I don’t have twenty thousand dollars for a caterer on speed dial! Sarah pays for everything!”
