A man and a foreign woman, tangled together. The man's face was slack with pleasure, wearing a greasy, leering grin.
And that face—displayed in perfect clarity for everyone to see—was mine.
The banquet hall erupted.
Parents covered their children's eyes.
Others leaned forward, gawking.
Some pulled out their phones to record.
"Holy shit! He's really going at it!"
"Damn, look at those moves—"
"Who would've guessed? Looks so refined and bookish, but underneath? Total sleaze."
"'Studying medicine abroad'—yeah right. Wonder how many rich women's beds he climbed into over there."
"That's wild. Think he'd actually settle down with just Ms. Fox after marriage?"
The comments grew filthier by the second.
Dora's face had gone a sickly green—the exact shade of the blanched vegetables on the banquet table.
Greg Fox looked like he might collapse. He grabbed my lapel to steady himself, then slammed his fist into my chest.
"I pitied you! Your parents died young, and I treated you like my own son! How could you be this shameless? How could you do this to my daughter?"
Guy clutched at Dora's sleeve, sniffling pathetically, his face arranged in an expression of pure noble sacrifice.