I spent twenty-seven surgeries rebuilding my body after saving my sister from a fire, only for her to hide me behind a choir screen because my scars ruined her wedding photos.

The ballroom erupted.

The noise was deafening—cries of outrage, shock, and furious whispers collided in the heavy air. Several of the city’s prominent figures stood up immediately, their expressions twisted with disgust. Judge Harrison, who sat at my table, turned to his wife, his face like thunder.

"Abhorrent," the judge muttered, pushing his chair back. "Utterly monstrous."

At the head table, Julian was staring at Emily as if she were a venomous snake that had crawled into his bed. He slowly backed away from her, his hands held up in revulsion.

"Julian... Julian, please," Emily wept, reaching out for his tuxedo lapel. "I was ten years old! I didn't know what I was doing with the fire! You can't blame me for what happened when I was ten!"

"I don't blame you for being ten, Emily," Julian said, his voice shaking with a cold, devastating clarity that cut right through her hysteria. "I blame you for what you said in the church parlor half an hour ago. I blame you for laughing at her scars. I blame you for wearing a dress bought with the skin off your sister's back, while you treated her like garbage!"

"Julian, no! We’re married! We just took vows!" she shrieked.

"The marriage license hasn't been signed by the officiant yet," Margaret stated coldly from the podium. "Father Thomas is outside in the library, and after what I have presented to him, he has refused to endorse the sacrament under false pretenses. There is no marriage, Emily. There never will be."

Mark Whitmore lunged toward the stage, his hands clawing for the papers in Margaret’s grip. "Give me those! You have no right to air private family business! You slanderous bitch, I’ll sue you for every penny—"

Before Mark could lay a hand on Margaret, two Callahan security guards intercepted him. They slammed him against the mahogany wall with a dull thud, twisting his arms behind his back.

"Let go of me!" Mark screamed, thrashing wildly. "Linda, call our attorney! Call him now!"

Linda couldn't call anyone. She had collapsed onto her knees beside her table, her blush-pink gown trailing in the spilled champagne and broken glass. She was sobbing incoherently, covering her face as socialites she had spent ten years trying to impress walked past her, deliberately turning their backs.

"As for your legal threats, Mark," Margaret said calmly, not even flinching as security held my father pinned, "you won't have the funds to hire a paralegal, let alone an attorney. Because yesterday morning, the South Carolina State Law Enforcement Division and the Attorney General’s office received the complete forensic audit of the 2012 trust."

Margaret stepped down from the dais, walking with measured, regal steps toward my table.

"The charges," Margaret announced to the silent, watching room, "include wire fraud, grand larceny, insurance fraud, and criminal fiduciary negligence resulting in great bodily harm. The warrants have already been signed."

Right on cue, the heavy mahogany double doors at the main entrance swung open.

Four uniformed officers from the Charleston Police Department, accompanied by two plainclothes detectives, entered the ballroom. The lead detective—a tall, weathered man with an iron badge pinned to his belt—scanned the room, spotted Mark pinned against the wall, and unclipped a pair of steel handcuffs.

"Mark Whitmore? Linda Whitmore?" the detective’s voice boomed over the hushed crowd.

My mother let out a wail that sounded like an animal dying in a trap. Emily shrank back into her chair at the head table, pulling her veil around her face, trying desperately to hide from the very cameras she had craved all morning.

The photographers, sensing the real story, weren't taking pictures of the floral arrangements anymore. The strobes were flashing furiously, capturing the terror on Mark's face as the steel cuffs ratcheted around his wrists.

Margaret stopped beside my wheelchair. She placed a gentle, steady hand on my trembling shoulder.

"You don't ever have to hide again, Claire," she whispered softly.

I looked down at my hands. For the first time in twelve years, I didn't feel the phantom heat of the fire.