He frowned, confused, but before he could respond, applause surged again as Miranda and Travis descended from the stage and began moving through the crowd.
They walked like royalty, stopping to accept compliments, shaking hands. Miranda’s laugh rang out bright and high. Travis held himself like he belonged on a magazine cover.
They moved in a slow, deliberate path that brought them closer to my corner.
I straightened my jacket and stepped out of the shadows.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight times, the sound deep and resonant. Each chime felt like a countdown.
I walked into the center of the ballroom.
The crowd shifted around me. People looked up, surprised. I could feel eyes tracking my movement, the subtle attention of a room that had mostly dismissed me until now.
My father’s hand reached for my arm, fingers closing briefly around my sleeve. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
I slipped free without even looking at him. “Finishing something,” I murmured.
Miranda and Travis turned as I approached. Miranda’s smile tightened when she saw me. Travis stared, and I watched his eyes flicker with that faint, uneasy recognition—like he knew my face but couldn’t place it fast enough to feel safe.
I stopped directly in front of them.
The chandelier above us cast light down in fractured patterns, glittering off Miranda’s dress, off Travis’s cufflinks. The air smelled like perfume and champagne and expensive cologne.
I extended my right hand.
A simple gesture. Polite. Professional. The kind of thing done a thousand times in conference rooms, in negotiations, in meetings where respect is a currency.
“Hello, Travis,” I said, voice steady, clear. “Congratulations.”
For half a breath, there was silence.
Then Miranda moved.
She lunged forward with sudden, sharp force, and her hand struck mine out of the air.
The sound was loud—skin on skin, a crack like a whip.
My hand snapped back against my side. Pain flared, hot and stinging, radiating through my fingers.
The music stopped.
I felt it more than I heard it—the way the room’s energy shifted, sucked into a single stunned moment. Conversations died. Glasses paused midair. The livestream cameras swung toward us, hungry.
Miranda smirked, wiping her hand on her designer dress like she’d touched something filthy.
Travis recoiled, his face twisting in disgust. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the sleeve of his jacket, frantic, theatrical, as if my hand had been coated in something toxic.
“Honey,” he said, voice dripping condescension, not even looking at my face as he inspected the fabric. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs? Don’t ever touch it.”
My pulse stayed steady.
Miranda stepped in front of him, her body language protective and performative. She turned her face toward the cameras, toward the crowd, toward the attention she fed on.
“Oh,” she said, loud enough for microphones to catch, for the room to hear, for the livestream to broadcast. Her voice was playful, cruel. “He only greets people he knows well.”
A beat.
Then laughter erupted.
Cruel, bright laughter, rolling through the room like a wave. People laughed because Miranda laughed, because they didn’t want to be the one who looked uncomfortable, because cruelty feels safer when everyone participates.
I caught my mother’s expression: her hand lifted to her mouth, pretending shock while her eyes gleamed with amusement.
I caught my father shaking his head, as if I’d deserved it.
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