I stepped through the entrance in a fitted wine-red couture gown, my hair swept up, my heels clicking against the marble. Every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward me.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
"That's Mrs. Gilbert. I heard her husband's giving half his fortune to his ex-girlfriend's sister tonight."
"And he's pressuring her to donate bone marrow too. Can you imagine?"
"Right? But she looks like she can hold her own. How does a woman like that end up a doormat at home?"
I ignored every prying glance, every pitying smirk, and walked straight to the head table.
Maxwell stood there in an impeccably tailored suit, all smiles, shaking hands and trading pleasantries with his guests like a man on top of the world.
Antonia sat in a custom wheelchair, draped in a white chiffon dress, styled to look like some fragile angel plucked from a painting. If you overlooked the carefully applied pallor on her face, she really did look heartbreakingly delicate.
The moment Maxwell saw me approaching, a sharp warning flashed through his eyes.
"Good. You know what's good for you. When it's time to go on stage, play along. Don't embarrass me."