Then my father, Graham Hart, took the microphone.
“Look, there’s Clara,” he announced, his voice carrying across the ballroom. “All by herself. Couldn’t even find a date for her sister’s big day.”
The room erupted in laughter.
I retreated to the terrace fountain, trying to breathe, but Graham followed me. He placed both hands on my shoulders and sneered, “Stop sulking. You’re ruining the aesthetic.”
Then he shoved me.
Not hard enough to look violent.
Just careless enough to humiliate me.
My heel caught the slick stone edge, and I fell backward into freezing water. My pale green dress clung to me, ruined and heavy.
The worst part was not the cold.
It was the applause.
No one gasped. No one rushed forward. They clapped while my father stood above me, still holding the microphone, smiling like he had delivered the perfect joke.
Something inside me went completely still.
