Chapter 3 - Whispers in Champagne
Lily’s spine stiffened. The humiliation did not hit all at once; it arrived in a cold, prickling wave that started at the back of her neck and crept down to her cheap twenty-six-dollar flats.
"I thought she was just going to drop off a card and leave," Megan said, leaning into Chloe's shoulder. Her manicured finger pointed subtly toward Lily’s hem. "Are those scuffs on her shoes? In a ballroom? God, if you can’t afford to dress for a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, just send your regrets. It’s an insult to the bride."
Lily stood rooted to the hardwood floor. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, walk down the grand staircase, and hike the mile back to the bus stop in the dark. But walking away meant proving them right. It meant admitting that a poor girl had no right to share the same air as people who never checked their bank balances before buying coffee.
"Don't let them rattle you," the woman in the wheelchair murmured, her eyes fixed forward. "Puffed-up sparrows always make the most noise before a hawk flies over."
"I should go find Sophia," Lily murmured, her voice tight. "Just say congratulations and slip out the back."
"You will do no such thing," the woman commanded quietly. "Push me to the main hall. I have an aversion to drafty corridors, and you look like you could use a destination that doesn't involve running away."
Lily hesitated, but the steady authority in the woman's tone gave her something solid to hold onto. She placed her hands back on the rubber grips and pushed the chair through the double mahogany doors into the grand ballroom.
The space was suffocatingly lavish. Cascades of white orchids hung from the ceiling, illuminated by amber uplighting that mimicked twilight. Tables draped in raw silk were crowded with guests in bespoke tuxedos and designer gowns.
Near the center stage, Sophia stood beside her new husband, Julian, the scion of an old-money shipping family. Sophia looked breathtaking in a couture French lace gown, but when her eyes swept across the room and landed on Lily—pushing a wheelchair, wearing faded lavender and scuffed flats—the bride's smile faltered.
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Beside Sophia, her mother, Eleanor, caught sight of them. Eleanor’s face darkened instantly. She set her champagne down with an aggressive clink and began marching across the parquet floor, her emerald earrings trembling with indignation.
"Lily," Eleanor hissed under her breath as soon as she reached them, positioning her body to block them from the photographer’s lens. "What on earth are you doing? And why are you parading staff equipment through the center of the reception?"
