Claimed By The Tyrant Brother
No, maybe I should fall my mom.
The facialist massaged my temples while I leaned back, phone propped up for a video call with my mother, who was lounging in her kitchen in our home, drinking matcha.
“I’m telling you,” I said, voice light and breezy, “the wedding has to be huge. Like, huge-huge. Not that sad little garden thing Delilah had.”
“Oh baby, of course,” Mom cooed. “You’re marrying a Weston. We need press. Influencers. Maybe even a N*****x crew.”