“You shouldn’t have come. The stench of your cheap clothes is ruining my party.”
Those were the last words Bianca whispered in my ear before she tipped her wrist and emptied a full glass of vintage Cabernet down the front of my white dress.
The wine struck like a slap—warm, then instantly cold as air hit the soaked fabric. I heard it before I felt it: the slow glug of something expensive being wasted, the faint splash on the floor, the sharp intake of breath from the guests nearby.
The music stumbled. Even the DJ had turned to look. Conversation drained from the room until I could hear my own breathing.
Bianca stepped back, watching the stain spread across my dress like spilled ink. A satisfied little smile curved her lips. She wasn’t embarrassed. She was pleased.
She was waiting for me to break—tears, apologies, humiliation.
I didn’t give her any of it.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wipe the stain. I didn’t even look down. I just looked at her.
Then I checked my watch.
6:02 p.m.
Three minutes.
By 6:05, this engagement party—this glittering fantasy—would be over.
Someone gasped behind her. A bridesmaid half-raised a napkin, then hesitated, unsure whether helping me was socially allowed. The crowd wasn’t reacting to what Bianca had done.
They were waiting to see what I would do.
Bianca laughed softly. “Oh dear. What a shame.”
She snapped her fingers at a passing waiter. “Napkin. And maybe some club soda. Though I doubt it will help—looks like polyester.”
Then she turned away from me and stepped into the arms of her bridesmaids as if she were the one who had been wronged.
My brother, Caleb, stood nearby holding a glass of champagne. He had seen everything.
He met my eyes for half a second—then deliberately looked away.
Something inside me went cold.
Denise, Bianca’s mother, glided over in her clicking heels, her smile tight and polished.
“Let’s move you out of sight, sweetheart,” she murmured, her grip biting into my arm. “We can’t have you ruining the background of the first dance.”
She dragged me toward the back of the ballroom, past the guests who suddenly found the floor fascinating, and shoved me into the cramped vendor area near the kitchen.
“Sit,” she ordered. “And don’t speak to anyone important.”
The door swung shut.
I sat there, wine soaking into my dress, watching through a narrow gap as Bianca laughed on the dance floor and Caleb toasted her.
They thought I had been put in my place.
What they didn’t realize was this:
They had just placed me exactly where I could end them.
I checked my watch again.
6:04.
Time to fix their mistake.