The music resumes, a gentle melody that seems at odds with the tension in the air.
My sister, back on her feet, avoids my eyes as she moves closer to the dance floor.
I watch, rooted to the spot, as my husband takes her hand.
They dance, a slow, deliberate waltz that feels like a statement.
Guests murmur, speculation buzzing like an undercurrent through the crowd.
I sip my champagne, the bubbles sharp and bitter on my tongue.
My father approaches, his demeanor composed, as if nothing is amiss.
“Quite the night,” he says, his voice betraying nothing.
I nod, unsure of how to respond, the words caught in my throat.
He watches the dance, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“She’s always been quite the dancer,” he muses, more to himself than to me.
I feel the weight of his words, a reminder of the favoritism that has always been there.
My sister laughs, the sound carrying above the music, light and carefree.
I wonder if she feels the strain of the situation, or if she revels in it.
The song ends, applause once again filling the space.
They return to the table, my husband brushing past me with a murmured apology.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
