Patricia sat at the head table, her expression one of calm victory. She believed everything was settled.
Derek escorted me to my seat, maintaining a painful grip on the small of my back. He sat beside me and picked up another glass of champagne.
“Now,” he muttered, his smile bright for the guests. “Take out your phone, Claire. Transfer authorization. Do it.”
“I’d like to make a toast first,” I said loudly.
Derek’s hand tightened around my back like a vise. “No.”
“Just a quick one,” I said, rising before he could physically restrain me. I reached across the table and took the microphone. A sharp burst of feedback cut through the soft music.
Two hundred faces immediately turned toward me.
Derek stood at once, trying to preserve his charming facade. “Claire’s had a bit of a shock, folks, she needs—”
“My husband,” I interrupted, my voice echoing beneath the crystal chandeliers, “thinks what happened with the cake was funny.”
The ballroom fell completely silent. Even the ice clinking inside the glasses could be heard.
Derek’s smile locked in place. He stepped toward me. “Claire. Put the mic down.”
