"My god, Eliza, you look terrible," Mrs. Vansant whispered, clutching her pearls. "We heard… we heard there was an accident."
"Is the baby okay?" someone else asked.
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
George’s jaw tightened. He looked at me with a warning in his eyes—a silent command to shut up and play the part.
"They told us you were in critical condition," George said loudly, forcing a strained smile. "That you might not make it. We were… we were just preparing for the worst."
"I’m very much alive," I said, locking eyes with him. "Miraculously."
Donna rushed forward, grabbing my hands. Her skin was warm, her perfume cloying. "Oh, thank god! We were so worried, Eliza! I’ve been crying all evening!"
I looked down at her hands, then back at her face. "You recovered quickly enough to put on my dress, Donna."
She froze, her smile faltering. "I… I didn’t have anything to wear… I rushed over when I heard…"
"Eliza," George cut in, his voice sharp. "You’re clearly in shock. You shouldn't be here. You need rest."
He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and steered me toward the stairs. "Excuse us, everyone. My wife needs to lie down."