I wore crimson.
A gown that hugged every curve I’d earned through years of work and every edge I’d sharpened through the last six months of betrayal. The kind of red that doesn’t ask permission. The kind of red that makes people look twice.
When I walked into the ballroom—an old, historic American hotel with chandeliers and marble floors that had watched a hundred elegant lies—the music didn’t stop.
But the air did.
It was as if I’d sucked the oxygen out of the room with my presence.
Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. Smiles froze.
My mother’s champagne flute slipped from her fingers.
Crystal shattered against marble.
A perfect metaphor, served on a silver tray.
My father stepped forward, face draining. He looked like a man who’d seen a ghost.
“We—we didn’t expect you,” he stammered. “There were reports of unrest in your sector. We thought…”
“You thought I was out of the way,” I said, smiling. The smile felt like a blade. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Father.”
He flinched at the word.
Father.
Not Dad.
Not in this moment.
Maya appeared then, radiant in the center of the room like she’d rehearsed the scene. She wore a silk cocktail dress that looked suspiciously like it had been repurposed from my veil—because my sister couldn’t steal without leaving a fingerprint.
She stepped toward me with her arm looped through a tuxedoed man’s sleeve.
Julian.
He looked tall, well-built, polished. A tuxedo that cost more than my medical degree. A smirk that said he expected me to crumble.
Maya purred, voice coated in fake sympathy.
“I know this must be awkward,” she said sweetly, loud enough for nearby ears to catch. “But love is unpredictable.”
Her eyes glittered with triumph.
“Julian and I… we just realized we were meant for each other. I hope you can be big enough to be happy for us.”
Big enough.
The phrase landed like a slap in a room full of perfume.
“It’s not about money or status,” Maya continued, laying a hand on Julian’s chest as if she owned him. “It’s just… deep.”
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