My brown-paper parcel tied with twine was saved for last.

The Laugh

Cassandra lifted the quilt. For three seconds, the ballroom breathed in. Then she laughed.

Not a surprised, grateful laugh. A bright, brittle ring that cut crystal and skin. “Oh my gosh—handmade? It’s… so rustic,” she chimed into a hot microphone. Bridesmaids tittered. “Basement storage?” someone stage-whispered. The laugh spread, efficient as perfume.

I stood. I walked out, one careful step at a time, past orchids, past ice sculptures, past a mountain of money. I found the cool night air and an old fountain and pressed my palm to my chest until the world steadied. I would not cry. Not here. Not for them.

A Hand That Wouldn’t Let Go

“Don’t leave.” Liam’s fingers closed around mine like resolve. His bow tie was loose, his eyes red. He pulled me not gently, but surely, back through doors that groaned at our return. He climbed the small stage, lifted the microphone, and in a single, shaking sentence, changed the temperature of the room.

“This wedding is over.”