I move through the crowd with a glass in hand. The microphone waits on its stand near the center of the patio. Only I know what sits inside it. A tiny recorder. Already active. Already carrying the weight of his own words. Hours of them. His meetings. His threats. His plan for my final night. He believed I would be gone before anyone ever heard them.
I step closer to the stage. Brandt catches sight of me and lifts his glass. “To my brilliant wife,” he says. Polite cheers rise around us. He loves attention. It blinds him every time.
A staff member signals to him that it is time for the evening toast. He moves toward the microphone. I place a gentle hand on his arm.
“Let me speak first,” I say. “Just a small thank you.”
He hesitates. He wants control. He wants the spotlight. The guests are watching. He cannot refuse without looking petty. He smiles and steps aside.
I take the microphone. The tiny recorder remains hidden inside its frame. My heart beats slowly. I breathe once, then I speak.
“Thank you all for being here. Eleven years is a long time. Some years are bright. Some are heavy. Some teach us who people truly are.”