The words were meant for me, but they were also meant for the people watching. A private cruelty delivered in public, so the humiliation would stick.
She lifted a finger toward my chest. Not touching, but close enough that I felt the heat of her hand.
“What on earth were you thinking,” she said, “showing up in that… outfit.”
Her lips tightened as she examined the ribbon rack like she was inspecting stains.
“You look like a doorman.”
My jaw locked. I kept my voice even. “It was Andrew’s request, Samantha. He wanted—”
“I don’t care what an unwell man said,” she snapped, cutting me off. Her voice rose just a touch, the way a performer raises volume when she knows she has an audience. “I am the head of this family now. I decide the image we project.”
She stepped back half an inch and gestured at me with a small flick of her wrist, as if dismissing an inconvenience.
“And look at you. Stiff. Coarse. You are ruining the aesthetic of this day.”
The word aesthetic landed like a slap. Like this was a gala and I’d shown up in the wrong dress code.
Then she pointed.
Not to the family vehicle. Not to the front of the procession.
To the back.
Way back, where catering vans idled and staff cars waited, where drivers kept their hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead.
“You will not step foot in my limousine,” she said crisply. “You’ll walk back there. With the help. That is where you belong.”
My heart pounded once, hard, but my face stayed still. I’d trained it that way, learned to keep expression locked when something inside me wanted to crack.
I didn’t look at Samantha.
I looked past her shoulder.
For the one person who should have been my shield.
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