What hurt more than their words was Brandon’s silence.
He stood there, jaw tight, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting between his mother, his sister, and me.
He looked uncomfortable.
Annoyed.
But not at them.
At the situation.
At me, for creating it by existing in the wrong dress.
“Brandon,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the music, “are you going to let them talk to me like this?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Mom, maybe we should—”
“Should what?” Clarissa snapped. “Should pretend this girl is acceptable? Should act like she’s not obviously after your money?”
I felt tears prick my eyes.
I blinked them back.
I refused to cry.
Not yet.
Natasha started circling me.
Literally circling.
Like a predator assessing prey.
“That dress probably cost what?” she said loudly. “Thirty dollars? And those shoes? Are those from a discount store?”
Giggles rippled through the nearby crowd.
“Actually,” I said, forcing a smile, “it was on sale for—”
“Oh my God, she’s answering,” Jessica laughed. “Brandon, seriously, this is embarrassing. Mom’s clients are here.”
Phones were everywhere now.
Not even pretending anymore.
People had their cameras up, angled just so, capturing my humiliation from every possible angle.
I caught a glimpse of a screen.
Someone was live.
Viewers: 200, 500, 900.
Climbing.
Clarissa stepped closer, expensive perfume wrapping around me like a chokehold.
“Listen here, you little gold digger,” she hissed, loud enough for the entire circle to hear. “I know exactly what you are. You’re a nobody. A nothing. Some poor little girl who saw an opportunity and took it.”
Her lip curled.
“My son deserves someone from his level,” she said. “Someone with class. Breeding. Education. Someone who belongs in our world. You…” She looked me up and down one more time.
“You’re trash.”
That’s when she slapped me.
Her hand came out of nowhere.
The sound cracked across the ballroom like a gunshot.
My head snapped to the side.
My cheek burned.
For a moment, everything went silent.
Then—
Gasps.
Laughter.
More phones.
The live stream viewer count jumped from 3,000 to 10,000 in seconds.
I stood there, stunned.
One hand pressed to my cheek. My face hot, my body frozen.
Tears spilled over before I could stop them.
“Brandon,” I whispered.
He looked away.
That should’ve been the end of it.
Humiliation. Slap. Me escorted out while they patted themselves on the back.
But Natasha wasn’t done.
She grabbed the strap of my dress.
“How dare you make my mother upset?” she shrieked.
“Natasha, don’t—” Brandon said weakly.
She yanked.
Hard.
The fabric tore.
The sound of ripping cloth sliced through the music, through the laughter, through whatever dignity I had left.
Instinctively, I clutched the front of my dress, trying desperately to hold it together, to cover myself.
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
Phones zoomed in.
“We should’ve charged admission for this,” someone muttered.
“Security!” Clarissa barked. “Remove this trash from my party.”
Two security guards started toward me.
I looked at Brandon one last time.
Silently begging.
Saysomething. Do something. Be the man I thought you were.
He stared at the floor.
And something inside me—
Didn’t break.
It crystallized.
“I see,” I said quietly.
My voice barely carried over the music and murmurs.
That was when we all heard it.
The Helicopter
At first, it was just a low hum.
A faint vibration beneath the bass line of the music.
Then it grew.
Louder.
Closer.
The chandeliers above us trembled.
Glasses on tables rattled.
Conversations faltered as people glanced up, frowning.
“What on earth…?” Clarissa said, annoyance wrinkling her forehead. “Who is interrupting my party?”
Then the hum turned into a roar.
Through the high windows of the ballroom, we could see flashing lights cutting through the night.
A helicopter was landing on the hotel’s rooftop helipad.
People moved toward the nearest windows, phones held high.
The live stream viewer count hit 100,000.
The doors to the ballroom swung open.
And my father walked in.
The Billionaire Enters
William Harrison.
Six foot three.
Silver hair, no nonsense.
Suit that cost more than most cars—but you’d never know it from the way he wore it. Casual. Comfortable. Like the money didn’t own him.
Four bodyguards in black moved behind him like shadows.
Everyone in that room knew who he was.
They didn’t have to recognize his face.
They’d seen it on magazine covers, on business channels, on “Top 10 Most Influential Tech Leaders” lists.
“Is that—?” someone whispered.
“Oh my God. That’s William Harrison.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Whispers rose like steam.
Phones swung from me to him.
The live view counter jumped to 500,000.
My father scanned the room.
His expression was carved from stone.
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