“You paid for this?” she said, laughing too loudly. “Chloe, sweetheart, you couldn’t pay for the driveway gravel.”
More laughter.
I let them have it.
People laugh the hardest right before the floor disappears beneath them.
Ethan grabbed my arm.
I looked down at his hand.
He let go.
Smart.
“Chloe,” he whispered, “whatever you think you’re doing, stop now. My father has investors here. Bankers. Partners. You are humiliating us.”
I tilted my head.
“Did it bother you when I was the one being humiliated?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
That was the problem with men like Ethan. They always had speeches prepared for women who cried. They had no script for women who remembered.
I walked to the small stage where Walter had given his welcome toast earlier. The microphone still waited on the lectern. Behind me, through the tall windows, the long driveway curved beneath bright outdoor lights. Past the gate, I could see the quiet road and the perfect lawns of wealthy neighbors.
I tapped the microphone.
A sharp sound cracked through the ballroom.
“Good evening,” I said.
My voice came out clear.
Madeline shouted, “Turn that off!”
I ignored her.
“My name is Chloe Hamilton,” I said. “At least legally, for a little while longer. Most of you know me as Ethan’s wife. Some of you know me as the orphan girl his family was generous enough to tolerate.”
Whispers moved through the room.
