“Don’t be shy,” Mara said louder. “Consider it my wedding gift from you.”
My cousin Daniel shifted uncomfortably beside her but said nothing. Somehow that hurt more than Mara’s cruelty. When we were children, I used to sing him to sleep during thunderstorms. Now he stood silently beside the woman orchestrating my public humiliation.
“Mara,” I said gently, “this is supposed to be your night.”
“Oh, I insist.”
Of course she did.
Three weeks earlier she overheard Daniel telling his mother I had “a beautiful voice.” Since then, she mocked me every chance she got.
“Beautiful by family standards?” she laughed once. “Like karaoke beautiful?”
Tonight was clearly the final performance she planned for me.
No rehearsal.
No warning.
No sheet music.
Just a microphone, a ballroom, and an audience waiting for disaster.
“What would you like me to sing?” I asked calmly.
Mara’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
“Ave Maria.”
A murmur swept through the room. Even people unfamiliar with classical music understood the trap. The song was exposed, demanding, unforgiving.
I glanced toward the pianist.
He immediately looked away.
Then I noticed the small black camera mounted beside the flower archway, its red recording light blinking steadily. Mara hired a videographer.
She wanted this immortalized.
I smiled.
