e made it backstage with exactly three minutes to spare. Greer Waters was holding a clipboard, her whole body practically vibrating with intensity. Her eyes lit on us. “There you four are,” she said, in equal parts relief and accusation. “Do you have any idea…”

Belatedly realizing that Lillian was standing directly behind us, Greer gathered her composure.

“You and I,” she told Sadie-Grace, pleasantly furious, “are going to be having a chat.”

Before Sadie-Grace could shudder at that, I murmured into her ear, “Maybe you can chat about the pregnancy she’s faking.”

Greer couldn’t possibly have heard me, but her eyes narrowed slightly nevertheless. “Well,” she said brightly, “there’s nothing to do now but move on. Girls, you’ll be escorted by your fathers—alphabetical order, please. Remember: When you make it to the end of the walkway, your father will offer your left hand to your Squire escort. Left.”

She paused for just an instant, before her borderline-manic eyes landed on me.

“Sawyer, I believe that one of your grandmother’s friends has graciously volunteered to—”

A voice interrupted her from behind. “That won’t be necessary.”

I turned to see my mom standing behind me. The last time I’d seen her, she’d walked away—because I’d told her to. I’d been hurt and incredulous and angry that she couldn’t even register the effect that anything she was saying or doing had on me.

“I’ll be escorting Sawyer,” my mom told Greer calmly. “If she’ll have me.”

The fact that she was here meant something. But after ­Christmas, I didn’t want to read into that too much.

My mom must have seen some trace of that on my face, because she lowered her voice. “Your grandmother came to see me.”

I glanced at Lillian, wondering what she’d said to bring my mom here.

“I’m sorry,” Greer told my mother stiffly. “But you cannot…”

“Of course she can,” Lillian said simply. “If that’s what Sawyer wants.”

Somehow, in the past nine months, Lillian had come to know me well enough to know that this was what I wanted. I wanted my mom—and my grandmother and Lily and the rest of my family, without having to choose.

“Truly,” I said, in imitation of a proper miss, enjoying the flustered expression on Greer’s face more than I should have, “I think that would be just lovely.”

“It’s settled, then,” Lillian declared.

Greer looked like she’d attempted to swallow a frog and gotten the poor creature stuck in her throat. She wanted to argue, but one did not argue with Lillian Taft.

She turned her attention to another target. “Campbell. Your father seems to be running late.”

With any luck, one of the officers would have, by this point, discovered the USB I’d slipped onto the counter when we’d left. On it, they would find a picture of the senator’s mistress wearing the stolen pearls—and very little else.

They’d also find a few select clips of the audio recording I’d taken of the senator’s conversation with me.

“You know the DA. You’re the one who pressured him to press charges against Nick in the first place.”

“It would be very inconvenient if you were to continue down this line of thought.”

And then the kicker: “If you do become inconvenient, I’ll kill you.”

In a day or two, Campbell would come forward and give her ­testimony—about the hit and run and the way her father had forced her to help him frame Nick. That testimony would be backed up by a digital diary she’d been keeping, conveniently time-stamped, for the last nine months, where she’d painstakingly poured her heart out about how her father had made her tell lies about Nick, made her keep quiet about the hit and run.

“Pardon me.” Davis Ames strode toward us. “My son has run into some difficulties. If Campbell doesn’t mind…” He looked to his granddaughter, his expression inscrutable. “I’ll escort her tonight.”

The show must go on, and it did.

“Campbell Caroline Ames.” Even from backstage, the ­announcer’s Southern drawl was perfectly audible. “Daughter of Charlotte and Senator Sterling Ames, escorted by her grandfather Davis Ames.”

I knew the second that her grandfather solemnly transferred her arm to her Squire’s, because the announcer moved on to announcing his name, his family ties, and so on.

“You didn’t have to come.” I looked over at my mom. Our last name put us near the end of the alphabet.

“Yes, I did, baby.” My mom leaned up against me, bumping my shoulder lightly with her own. It was a familiar gesture.

It meant I’m here.

“I should have handled this better. I know that, Sawyer. How could I not? But I spent so many years trying to prove to myself and to you that I could do this. I could be everything you needed.” She looked down at the ground, her fingers playing at the edges of her sheer and sparkling sleeves. “I used to be so terrified, when you were little, that your grandmother would find a way to take you from me.”

And then, right after I’d turned eighteen, I’d chosen to come here of my own free will.

“No one is taking me away,” I said.

“Your grandmother said the same thing,” my mom murmured. “Lillian came to me, eating crow and singing your praises—singing my praises for raising such a strong and independent young woman.”

There was a pause as I heard the announcer begin the presentation of another Deb.

“She said that you have a good head on your shoulders, that you’re kind, even though you’d prefer for people not to notice.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to object, but I had the self-awareness to realize that would only prove Lillian’s point.

“She asked you to come here,” I said instead.

The indomitable Ellie Taft was quiet for a moment. “She shouldn’t have had to.”

My mom listened as they announced Lily’s name: “Lillian Taft Easterling, daughter of John and Olivia Easterling, escorted by her father, John Easterling.”

“It’s okay,” my mom told me, “to want your own life. And it’s okay to need people. Family.”

“You’re my family.” Those words were no less true than they’d been nine months earlier. She was my mom. She loved me.

And just this once: She’d surprised me.

As our turn approached, my mom let out a long breath. “Don’t trip. Don’t fall. Just walk.”

I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me—or herself.

The next thing I knew, the announcer was calling, “Sawyer Ann Taft.”

We stepped out onto the stage. The lights were bright. As I slipped my arm through my mom’s and we made our way down the walkway, I thought back to the auction.

My, how things have changed.

“Daughter of Eleanor Taft.” The announcer paused, just for a moment, then registered the fact that there was no father’s name to read. “Granddaughter,” he continued smoothly, “of Lillian Taft, escorted by her mother, Eleanor Taft.”

My mom squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. And then she handed me off to my Squire escort.

“Boone Davis Mason, son of Julia and Thomas Mason…”