At a black-tie birthday party, I approached the head table and saw there was no seat for me. Fine. I canceled the venue, the flowers, the music, and the gondola—then had the deposit returned to my account. The manager handed them the bill. I walked out. Forty-eight hours later, the story broke—and everything unraveled. My name is Emily Carter, and for six months I planned Ryan Mitchell’s black-tie birthday like it was a launch event. Ryan turned thirty-five, and he kept joking that he wanted “so

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