When the master of ceremonies announced that the father of the bride would like to offer a few words, a subtle tightening moved through the nearest tables.
Charles rose slowly, adjusting the cuff of his jacket, and lifted his champagne glass, watching the bubbles rise. “My daughter,” he began, “has always possessed a certain… flair,” and the pause before the last word was long enough to signal this would not be pure praise.
A few guests laughed politely, but others shifted in their seats as they sensed the temperature dropping.
“She insisted on wearing military decorations tonight, as if this were a ceremony of state,” he continued, letting his gaze drift to the medals on Lillian’s chest.
“But let’s be honest with ourselves. Decorations are symbolic. They do not build companies. They do not generate shareholder value.”
Lillian felt her jaw tighten, and she inhaled slowly through her nose the way she had before briefings in windowless rooms.
“Dad,” she said quietly, “this isn’t the time.”
Instead of sitting, Charles stepped down from the low stage, champagne still in hand, as he approached her.
“Take them off,” he murmured. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself, and by extension, of me.”
“I won’t,” she replied, only stating a boundary as fact.
The slap came as a swift, controlled motion, the sound shocking as it cracked through the ballroom’s elegance.
Lillian’s head turned with the force, a faint red bloom appearing against her cheekbone.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
