standing in the way of an extraordinarily patient stepmother. She never used Amara's name when speaking of the scholarship. Instead, she announced that the evening would support a new public initiative run through her own consulting company, with details to be revealed soon.
Amara stepped forward. The movement was small, but it brought her into the open space at the center of the room. "That wasn't the plan," she said. "The donations were supposed to help girls study design. We promised the money would go to Mom's studio."
For a second, the room was completely still. Then Celeste lowered the microphone and answered in a voice as smooth as polished glass. "Sweetheart, there are some things adults understand that children do not. Please don't ruin this evening because you didn't get your way."
"I'm not trying to ruin anything." Amara could hear her own voice shaking. "I just want to do what Dad and I agreed to do."
Celeste handed the microphone to an event assistant and crossed the room. She stopped close enough for the photographers to mistake the gesture for an embrace. "Your father and I are in charge of this house," she whispered. "You don't get to drag your mother's name into every conversation just because you want people feeling sorry for you."
Amara stared at her. She had endured the photographs being moved and the forgotten phone calls. She had endured being told she was too sensitive, too difficult, too attached to things that should have been put away. But hearing her mother described as a tool for winning sympathy cracked something she had struggled for years to keep whole. "She was my mother," she said. "I don't need to apologize for loving her."
Celeste's face hardened for an instant. She caught the loose end of Amara's ivory sash as the girl tried to pull back. The fabric stretched between them. "And I don't need to be corrected by a child in front of my guests. Look at this dress. Look at the spectacle you're making."
"Let go," Amara whispered.
Celeste released the sash so abruptly that it slipped through Amara's fingers. The girl clutched the gathered fabric against her chest, afraid the delicate shoulder might come undone. Tears blurred the chandelier and the faces watching her. She tried to speak, but embarrassment choked the words. Beside her, Celeste tilted her head and gave a small, satisfied smile, certain the silent room would interpret the girl's tears as another demonstration of teenage instability.