The scent of the wedding was expensive. It smelled of calla lilies imported from Ecuador, vintage champagne uncorked an hour too early, and the specific, metallic crispness of money being burned for show.

Margaret sat in a velvet armchair in the corner of the bridal suite, effectively invisible. That was her superpower now. At sixty-five, with her orthopedic shoes, her floral print dress that smelled faintly of lavender, and her silver hair pulled back in a loose, non-threatening bun, she was part of the furniture. To the wedding planner, she was “The Mother of the Bride.” To the guests, she was “Poor Dear Margaret, a bit frail since the hip surgery.”

To Julian, the groom, she was an obstacle that had finally been overcome.

“Mom, are you okay?” Sophie asked, her reflection framed in the grand vanity mirror. She looked breathtaking, a cloud of white silk and lace. But her eyes were anxious.

“I’m fine, darling,” Margaret said, her voice pitched to a perfect, wavering tremor. “Just a little overwhelmed. I think… I think I need a tissue. I’ll go find one in the groom’s suite; the concierge said they stocked the extra soft ones there.”

“I can get someone to—”

“No, no. I need to stretch my legs. The hip, you know.” Margaret patted her thigh with a grimace that was entirely theatrical.“I’ll drive,” Margaret said. “And at the restaurant, I’m taking the seat facing the door.”

Sophie laughed, linking her arm through her mother’s. “Okay, Colonel. Whatever you say.”

They walked into the night, a mother and daughter, and the most dangerous security detail in the city.