I took a slow, deep breath, reaching for my glass of iced water. I leaned back into the stiff, uncomfortable banquet chair, profoundly grateful to finally be off my swollen, aching feet. The string quartet had started playing a soft, classical melody, and the servers were beginning to circulate with the first round of appetizers.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, praying the evening would end quickly. I thought the worst was over. I thought I had successfully navigated the emotional minefield.
Then, I opened my eyes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white lace.
Vanessa was marching across the massive expanse of the ballroom floor. Her pristine white stilettos clicked aggressively against the polished marble, a sharp, angry rhythm that cut through the soft music. She had abandoned her new, wealthy husband at the head table. Her face, previously arranged in a mask of bridal joy, was now twisted into a look of pure, unadulterated malice.
And she was heading straight for my table.
My heart immediately picked up its pace, hammering a rapid, anxious rhythm against my ribs. I felt a sudden, familiar flush of heat rise in my neck. I set my water glass down, bracing myself for whatever petty criticism she was about to deliver.
Vanessa reached my table, stopping abruptly. The bridal smile was entirely gone, replaced by a vicious, entitled sneer. She didn’t bother to lower her voice. She wanted an audience.
“Don’t just sit around looking miserable simply because you’re pregnant, Elena!” Vanessa snapped. Her voice was loud, sharp, and carried effortlessly over the gentle hum of the string quartet.
Several guests seated at the tables nearest to us stopped talking. They turned their heads, their forks hovering mid-air, watching the bride confront the pregnant woman in the back corner.
I felt the intense, burning heat of public humiliation flood my cheeks.
