“You Simply Don’t Understand Our World,” My Daughter’s Fiancé Smirked At The Engagement Party. I Didn’t Argue. I Just Smiled… And Made One Call To My Lawyer. Within Days, He Lost His Biggest Client. He Learned Too Late Who I Really Was.

The assumption. The belief that I was barely scraping by, that offering to help with the wedding would mean sacrificing something important. I almost told her then, almost explained that my pension was actually the structured payout from selling my company, that the money sitting in various investments and trusts could cover her wedding ten times over and still leave plenty for her inheritance.

But I didn’t, because I wanted to see what Dererick would do, how he’d act, who he’d reveal himself to be when he thought I had nothing he needed. “Let me worry about that,” I told Emma. “You just focus on being happy.”

Over the next few weeks, wedding planning kicked into high gear.

Emma would call me with updates, excitedly at first, then with growing stress as Derek’s vision for the wedding grew more elaborate. “He wants ice sculptures,” she told me one afternoon. “Plural.

And he’s insisting on flying in a chef from New York for the reception dinner.”

“What do you want?” I asked. She was quiet for a moment. “I just want to marry him, Dad.

All the rest… it’s nice, but it’s not what matters.”

But Derek thought it mattered. And Robert and Patricia thought it mattered. And somehow Emma’s simple wish for a beautiful wedding had morphed into a production designed to impress people I doubted she even knew.

I got the invitation to the engagement party three weeks later. Thick card stock, embossed lettering, the works. It was being held at the Vancouver Country Club on a Saturday in November.

Flights, hotel—everything would be expensive. For someone on a pension, it might be prohibitive. I called Emma.

“I’ll be there.”

“Really?” Relief flooded her voice. “Oh, Dad, thank you. I know it’s a lot of travel, but it would mean the world to me.”

I booked my flight that day.

First class. Though I didn’t mention that to Emma. I also made another call—to an old friend who sat on the board of directors at Thornton Financial, the firm where Derek worked.

“James,” I said when he answered, “it’s Thomas. I need a favor.”

“Tom, haven’t heard from you in months. How’s retirement treating you?”

“Can’t complain.

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