Tiffany’s face changed.
“You’ve resented this wedding from the beginning.”
“I questioned the expenses.”
“You tried to control everything.”
“I paid for everything.”
Nearby conversations stopped. Daniel saw us from the dance floor and began walking toward us, but too slowly. I looked at my daughter-in-law with imported orchids behind her, chandeliers over her head, and hundreds of guests eating food purchased with money from my husband’s land.
“I have given enough,” I told her. “The answer is no.”
Her hand came up.
The slap snapped my head sideways.
A champagne flute hit the floor and shattered.
The band stopped playing.
I slowly turned back toward her and looked at Daniel.
“Tiffany…” he whispered.
That was all.
He did not ask whether I was hurt. He did not demand an apology. He did not move to protect me.
Tiffany stared at me coldly.
“You should leave. You’re ruining the atmosphere.”
So I picked up my purse and walked out of the ballroom alone.
Inside the restroom, I locked the door and looked in the mirror. A red handprint was spreading across my cheek. My hands began shaking, but then I remembered something Tiffany had apparently forgotten during all those months of ordering flowers, cars, alcohol, music, and hotel rooms.
Every time a vendor had needed a signature, they had called me.
The estate.
The bar.
The band.
The transportation.
The late-night food.
The honeymoon suite.
The farewell brunch.
One name sat on those contracts.
Margaret Bennett.
I took out my phone and called the venue manager.
