Three Years
Isla read the date four times, certain she'd misunderstood it. She hadn't.
Three years ago, Isla had been finishing her design portfolio, unemployed for two months, applying to jobs nobody answered. Three years ago, she hadn't known Weston Halvorsen existed.
She called Priya at eleven at night.
"Say that again," Priya said. "Doreen wrote you a note *before* you and Weston even met?"
"The note's dated. I checked it against my calendar app, my old emails — three years ago I was still living with my grandpa, still job hunting." Isla paced her kitchen. "How did she even know who I was?"
"Maybe it's not about you specifically. Maybe it's a general — I don't know, family disclaimer, and it just happened to end up in your ledger."
"It says *my dear Isla*, Priya. My name."
Silence on the line.
Isla opened her laptop instead of sleeping, scrolling back through three years of emails until she found the one she was looking for: the invitation to the design conference where she'd met Weston, at a mixer neither of them was originally supposed to attend. She remembered it clearly — her badge had been misprinted, she'd been bumped to a different table at the networking dinner at the last minute, seated beside a man who kept refilling her water glass because he was too nervous to ask for her number directly.
She'd always thought of it as luck. A good story for the wedding toast.
The conference invitation had come through her design program's alumni association — an association, she now saw scrolling further down the email chain, that had received a "professional development grant" that year from a foundation she'd never thought to look up.
The Halvorsen Family Foundation.
Isla closed the laptop slowly, the way you'd close a door you didn't want to hear what was behind.
Someone had paid for the room she walked into the night she met Weston.