Crawford Whitlock tapped his spoon against the champagne glass twice, and the wedding reception fell silent.
Rooms had always gone quiet for him.
He spoke about legacy, family, and standards. Then he pointed directly at me.
He told nearly two hundred guests that I had spent three years manipulating his son and that I was nothing more than a gold digger marrying up.
My mother covered her mouth.
Emmett slammed his hand against the table.
“Get out.”
I touched his arm.
“It’s fine.”
Then I walked across the hardwood floor in my ivory dress and held out my hand.
Crawford smiled.
He placed a pen in my palm and slid a document toward me.
“Smart,” he said.
I read the first page.
Then I signed my full name.
His smile widened as he snatched the document back.
He thought he had won.
I reached for the microphone in his other hand.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m very happy to sign that.”
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