“Has he?” she said, voice cool. “How… interesting.”
Her gaze slid down my dress, over my shoes, then back up like a scanner ticking off flaws.
“Brandon, darling,” she said, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. “Could you not have told her this was a formal event? She looks like she came from a thrift store.”
The words sliced through the chatter around us.
Conversations paused. Heads turned.
People pretended not to listen.
And failed.
Heat flooded my face, but I kept my smile.
“I knew it was formal,” I said calmly. “This is actually one of my favorite dresses.”
Clarissa’s eyes widened slightly, like she’d just watched someone declare their love for a Spam casserole at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
“Your favorite?” she echoed.
She turned to Brandon.
“Where did you find her exactly?”
Before he could answer, another woman appeared at Clarissa’s shoulder.
Younger. Dark hair, smoky eye makeup, dress cut a little too low and slit a little too high for “subtle elegance.”
Natasha.
Brandon’s sister.
“Oh my God,” Natasha said, looking me up and down like she was appraising a used car. “Brandon, is this a joke? Please tell me this is some kind of prank. Did you bring a charity case to Mom’s party?”
Some people nearby laughed.
Quietly.
Phones tilted in our direction.
“Natasha, stop,” Brandon muttered, shifting his weight. “Emma is my girlfriend and—”
“And what?” Clarissa cut in, her voice sharpening. “And you thought bringing someone who clearly doesn’t belong here was appropriate? Look at her, Brandon. Look at this girl. She’s not one of us.”
I felt those words like a physical shove.
A part of me wanted to scream, You have no idea who I am.
Another part won.
The part that remembered the test.
With all the dignity I could muster, I said quietly, “With all due respect, Mrs. Hayes, I may not be wealthy, but I—”
Clarissa laughed.
A harsh, joyless sound.
“Darling,” she said, “you’re clearly poor as dirt.”
There it was.
“I can smell desperation on you,” she continued. “You found my successful son and thought you’d won the lottery, didn’t you?”
Another woman joined the circle. Jessica—the cousin. Blond hair, perfect makeup, smile like a shark.
“I bet she Googled him,” Jessica chimed in. “Found out about the family business. Classic gold digger move.”
The words hit in quick succession.
Gold digger. Poor. Desperate. Not one of us.
Each one landed like a slap.
Speaking of slaps.
The Slap Heard Round The Internet
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
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