Evelyn didn’t just toss the wine. She flung it with the calculated force of an executioner swinging an axe.
The dark red liquid hit me square in the chest, splashing up to my collarbone and dripping down the pristine white silk of my gown like a freshly opened wound. The cold shock of the liquid made me gasp, the heavy scent of alcohol flooding my senses.
A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom. The string quartet in the corner abruptly stopped playing. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
I stood perfectly still, the wine seeping through the fabric, chilling my skin.
Evelyn lowered the empty crystal glass, a look of profound, aristocratic satisfaction on her face. She looked me dead in the eyes, her voice echoing in the dead quiet of the room.
“That,” Evelyn announced clearly, “is to disinfect a poor girl. If you want to marry my son and step foot in this house, you will pay the hundred thousand dollars, and you will sign over the shares. Consider this a baptism into reality.”
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. The humiliation burned hot in my cheeks, a primal instinct screaming at me to run, to hide, to cry. But then, the image of my brother’s hospital bed flashed in my mind. The sound of machines beeping. The look of utter defeat on my parents’ faces when the bill arrived.
I opened my eyes. The fear was gone. Only ice remained.
I turned slowly to look at Marcus. My fiancé. The man who claimed he loved me.
Marcus was pale, his eyes darting around the room, assessing the damage to his social standing. He didn’t look angry at his mother. He looked annoyed with me. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and shoved it into my hand.
“Just wipe your face, Althea,” he muttered, his voice a harsh, frantic whisper. “Don’t make a scene. Just go to the powder room, clean up, and sign the damn papers. We can fix this later. Just be a good girl and do what she says.”
Be a good girl.
The last chain snapped. The illusion of Marcus Witford shattered into a million jagged pieces, revealing the pathetic, spineless manipulator beneath. He didn’t want a partner. He wanted a hostage.
I didn’t take the handkerchief. I let it flutter to the marble floor, landing in a puddle of spilled wine.
I reached up and slowly wiped a drop of wine from my jawline with my bare hand. I looked at the red smear on my fingers, then I smiled. It wasn’t a polite smile. It was the smile of a predator that had just been let off its leash.
“No, Marcus,” I said, my voice projecting clearly across the silent ballroom. “I don’t think I will.”
I turned my back on him and walked. I didn’t walk toward the exit. I didn’t walk toward the bathrooms to hide my shame.
I walked straight toward the small stage at the end of the ballroom, where the string quartet was frozen in shock.
“Althea! Where are you going?” Marcus demanded, his voice cracking with sudden panic.
I ignored him. I climbed the three steps onto the stage, the heavy, wine-soaked silk of my dress trailing behind me like a war banner. I stepped up to the microphone stand that had been set up for Charles Witford’s toast. I tapped the mic.
Thump. Thump.
The sound boomed through the ballroom speakers. Five hundred pairs of eyes were locked onto me—the ruined bride, the poor girl from Pueblo, bleeding vintage wine onto the stage.
I took a deep breath, looking out over the sea of shocked faces, locating Evelyn’s furious glare and Marcus’s terrified pallor.
Let’s burn this empire to the ground.
Chapter 5: The Coup d’État
At our engagement gala in front of 500 elite guests, my future mother-in-law splashed red wine on my white dress. ‘Pay $100,000 and 15% of your company to disinfect your poor blood,’ she sneered. When my fiancé told me to obey, I didn’t cry. Instead, I walked to the microphone and announced the multi-billion-dollar deal that would instantly bankrupt their entire family empire.
Part 4 of 6
