Part 2: At My Sister’s Wedding, My Name Wasn’t on the Guest List and I Was Sent to Eat in the Kitchen—So I Walked Out Quietly, Removed My Father’s Company From My Firm’s Priority List, and Minutes Later the Bride Screamed, “What Did You Do?”...

By 8:30 PM, my home office on the top floor of a converted warehouse in the West Loop looked less like a residence and more like an active command post.

Three monitors glowed across my walnut desk, displaying real-time data feeds from Asterline’s server cluster, client queue logs, and project management dashboards. My coffee mug was half-full of dark roast, and my silver laptop sat open beside an encrypted terminal.

My chief operating officer, Marcus Vance, appeared on my center monitor via a secure video link. He was sitting in his home study, wearing a bathrobe and holding a cup of tea, looking thoroughly amused.

"Well, boss," Marcus said, grinning through his neatly trimmed gray beard. "That was certainly one way to RSVP 'no' to the buffet."

"Did the automated notices go out?" I asked, leaning back in my ergonomic mesh chair.

"Every single one of them," Marcus replied, taking a sip of his tea. "At 7:06 PM, our system automatically notified Mercer Architectural Systems that their upcoming design-validation contract for the Chicago Transit Authority extension has been moved from 'Expedited Priority' to 'Standard Queue - Position 42.' Furthermore, the seven pending change-order approvals have been returned unexecuted due to 'insufficient technical resource allocation.'"

I felt a slight twitch of satisfaction at the corner of my mouth. "How long before the queue hits them?"

"According to our SLA, standard queue times for uncontracted backlog are currently six to eight months," Marcus said. "Unless they want to pay our emergency override rate of four hundred and fifty dollars per engineer-hour, of course."

"What’s the total cost of that override for their CTA project?"

"Roughly eight hundred thousand dollars upfront, plus a mandatory twenty-percent deposit for escrow." Marcus chuckled. "Given that their cash flow has been tight since they bought that new warehouse in Cicero, I’d say Paul Mercer is currently trying to figure out which one of his kidneys he can sell on the black market."

As if on cue, my personal cell phone buzzed against the desk.

It wasn't a standard text or a normal call. It was a high-priority direct-line ring that bypassed my do-not-disturb settings.

Caller ID: PAUL MERCER (OFFICE).

I looked at Marcus. "Showtime."

I hit Accept and put the call on speaker, keeping my voice entirely flat, professional, and devoid of familial warmth.

"Asterline Engineering Group. Rowan speaking. How may I direct your call?"

For three seconds, there was only heavy, ragged breathing on the other end of the line. Then my father’s voice exploded through the speaker, trembling with a fury so intense it sounded like he was about to burst a blood vessel.

"Rowan! What in God’s name do you think you are playing at?!"

"I’m sorry, sir," I replied smoothly. "Is this a business inquiry? If so, please provide your corporate account number."

"Don't give me your corporate bullshit!" Dad roared. "I am looking at seven cancellation notices on my desk right now! My project manager just called me from the wedding reception to tell me the CTA structural review has been bounced to the back of the line! Do you know what penalties I face if we miss the Monday filing deadline with the city?"

"I am well aware of the municipal code deadlines, Mr. Mercer," I said, emphasizing the formal title. "Unfortunately, Asterline’s current resource allocation is fully committed to tier-one partners who adhere to our scheduling protocols."

"We are a tier-one partner!" he screamed. "We’ve been working with you for six years!"

"Actually, our records indicate that Mercer Architectural Systems was on a provisional courtesy status," I corrected, checking the CRM on my left monitor. "A status that requires mutual respect, professional courtesy, and timely account standing. Effective this evening, that courtesy has been rescinded."

There was a muffled sound in the background—Mom’s voice, frantic and sharp, asking what was happening. Then Camille’s voice cut in, high-pitched and hysterical.

“Tell her to fix it, Dad! The photographer is asking for the final check, and the bank just rejected your corporate card!”

My eyes widened slightly. Rejected corporate card? They must have maxed their line of credit on the wedding flowers and the jazz quartet.

Dad came back to the phone, his voice dropping from a roar into a desperate, trembling hiss.

"Rowan... Rowan, listen to me. You’re upset about the seating chart. I know you are. Your mother and I... we made a mistake with the tables. It was crowded. There were too many out-of-town guests. But this—this is insanity. You’re attacking your own family's livelihood over a chair?"

"It wasn't a chair, Dad," I said quietly. "It was a mirror. And for the first time in twenty-nine years, I liked what I saw in it."

"Rowan, put down whatever childish game you’re playing, get back in your car, and come back to the Grandview right now. I’ll clear a seat at the head table. You can sit with your brother."

"No thank you," I said. "The kitchen smells like leftover gravy, and I’m really not dressed for a ballroom."

"Rowan!"

"Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Mercer. Please direct any future engineering inquiries through our online portal. Goodbye."

I tapped the red button and ended the call.