My wealthy daughter-in-law shoved me to the “kitchen table” at a 400-guest wedding in Newport, then at midnight my son texted me an account number demanding another $30,000 for their $93,000 Maldives honeymoon. I didn’t make a scene—I simply quietly locked the transfer… and the next morning, his father-in-law set an envelope in front of me containing a prenup and a secret trust fund, the kind of thing that made the entire Bennett “dynasty” start tearing itself apart.
“Mrs. Coleman, if you could please follow me to your seat.” The wedding planner’s voice was honeyed with fake politeness, her clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. I smoothed down my navy-blue dress—the one I’d spent three months searching for, the one William had once said brought out the silver in my hair—and…
