“If you’re really here to support me, then prove you’re actually useful,” Vanessa commanded, jutting her chin toward the swinging kitchen doors just a few feet away. “Go in there and help the catering staff. They are short-handed, and they need people carrying the heavy appetizer trays out for the cocktail hour.”
I stared at her, genuinely stunned by the demand. My brain struggled to comprehend the level of sociopathy required to issue such an order.
“Vanessa,” I whispered, disbelief coloring my tone. “I am seven months pregnant. I have preeclampsia. I am your sister-in-law. I am not a caterer.”
“And I,” Vanessa shot back, leaning down so her face was inches from mine, her voice a venomous hiss, “am the bride. You are in my venue. You do what I say, or you can get out.”
She stood back up, a smug, victorious smirk plastering itself across her face as she looked down at me, waiting for my submission. Waiting for me to rise, humiliated, and carry trays of shrimp puffs to her wealthy guests like a hired servant.
I gripped the arms of my chair. A hot, blinding anger finally burned through the fog of my exhaustion. I opened my mouth, the words of a final, relationship-ending refusal forming on my tongue. I was ready to stand up, walk out the heavy double doors, and never speak to a single member of the Vance family for the rest of my natural life.
But before I could utter a single syllable, the elegant, soft melody of the string quartet was violently interrupted.
A piercing, high-pitched, deafening squeal of microphone feedback suddenly exploded through the massive ballroom’s sound system.
It was so loud and so jarring that several guests physically jumped in their seats, covering their ears. Vanessa flinched, her hands flying to the sides of her head, the triumphant smirk instantly wiped from her face. Marlene gasped, looking wildly toward the stage.
The feedback died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thump, thump of a finger tapping directly against the head of a microphone.
