My sister’s voice did not just speak; it severed. It sliced through the humid, perfumed air of the banquet hall like a serrated blade, cutting through the low hum of conversation and the clink of silver forks against fine china.
“And here she is,” Aribba announced, gesturing toward me with a flute of champagne that sparkled under the crystal chandeliers. “My widowed sister. The family charity case. A cheap single mom trying to navigate a world that’s clearly too expensive for her.”
A ripple of laughter spread across the round tables, starting as a polite titter and growing into a cruel wave. It was the rehearsal dinner, a night meant to celebrate love, but in the Vane Estate, love was a currency, and I was bankrupt.
Then my mother, Eleanor, leaned back in her high-backed chair, her face a mask of malicious delight. She swirled her wine, grinning like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Oh, come now, Aribba. Don’t be so harsh. Perhaps there is a guest here with a savior complex? Anyone interested in taking her home? It comes with a child and a mountain of debt.”
The laughter became a roar. It crashed over me, hot and suffocating.
