Clarissa laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. “Wealthy? Darling, you are clearly poor as dirt. I can smell the desperation on you. It smells like cheap polyester. You found my successful son and thought you’d won the lottery, didn’t you?”
Jessica, the cousin, chimed in from the side. “Classic gold digger. I bet she Googled the family net worth before the first date.”
The words hit me like stones. But what hurt more—what hurt agonizingly deep—was Brandon.
He said nothing. He did nothing. He stood there, looking at his shoes, letting the women in his life tear me apart because he was too afraid to defend the girl in the yellow dress.
“Brandon,” I whispered. “Are you going to let them speak to me like this?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at his mother, terrified.
“Mom,” he muttered weakly. “Maybe we should go…”
“Go?” Clarissa snapped. “You aren’t going anywhere with her. Security!”
She stepped closer to me, invading my space. “Listen here, you little leech,” she hissed, loud enough for the cameras to catch every syllable. “I know exactly what you are. You are a nobody. A nothing. My son deserves someone with class, with breeding, someone who belongs in our world. You are trash.”
And then, she moved. Her hand lashed out.
The slap cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot.
My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned with a sudden, searing fire. The room gasped, but it was a gasp of excitement, not horror.
“Get her out of here,” Clarissa commanded.
I stood there, stunned, my hand cupping my face. Tears spilled over, hot and fast.
“Brandon?” My voice broke.
