I clenched the hem of my shirt. I was about to explain.
Dylan consoled Ella, "You meant well. Unfortunately, she doesn't know what's good for her."
He shot me a glance. "Playing the victim once or twice is enough. Any more than that, and it just becomes annoying."
Even though I had known for a while how little he thought of me, hearing it still hurt.
If only he had taken the dress out of the bag, he would've seen it was way too big.
On me, it would've looked like a loose sack.
Not to mention, the scars crisscrossing my body and my deformed right leg would've been exposed.
I numbly lowered my head, choosing not to explain.
A guest holding a wine glass approached and exchanged pleasantries with Dylan.
I quietly turned to leave.
Suddenly, a hand shoved me hard from behind.
I lost control and stumbled forward, crashing into the nine-tier birthday cake that a servant was pushing.
With a loud crash, I fell hard to the floor.
The toppled cake splattered all over me, red jam and cream smearing my face.
The entire hall fell silent.
Suddenly, a little boy said, "Auntie, she looks like a clown."
The floor was slick with cream, and with my weak right leg, I struggled pathetically in the pile of cake.