PART 1
The moment I walked into that ballroom, I heard her say it.
Sloan Whitmore—my brother’s perfect fiancée—leaned toward her bridesmaids with a glass of champagne in her manicured hand. Her whisper was loud enough to carry, and I knew she meant it that way.
“Oh, great. The little country girl is here.”
Her friends giggled like a pack of mean girls in designer dresses. Sloan didn’t even bother to look at me when she said it. I was that insignificant to her—just some inconvenience that crawled out of a small town to ruin the aesthetic of her perfect engagement party.
