Part 1:
The second slap sounded even louder than the first.
It cracked through the ballroom like shattered crystal, silencing the entire engagement party so completely that even the harpist’s hands froze above the strings.
My cheek burned. My eyes stung.
But I refused to cry in front of the woman who had just humiliated me before two hundred guests.
Vivian Blackwood, my future mother-in-law, stood inches away from me in a silver gown that probably cost more than my first car. Diamonds flashed at her throat and wrists, but her face was twisted with pure contempt.
“You really thought you could force your way into this family?” she hissed. “A penniless little beggar like you?”
My fiancé, Ethan, stood behind her, pale and motionless.
His hand lifted slightly, like he might reach for me.
But he did nothing.
Nothing.
“Vivian,” someone whispered.
She grabbed the engagement ring from my finger so roughly that it scraped my knuckle. Then she pointed toward the grand doors of the country club.
“Get out.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Are you going to say anything?”
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
His silence answered for him.
I picked up my clutch from the marble floor. My face throbbed, but somehow my dignity did not. As I walked past the guests, whispers followed me.
Poor girl.
So embarrassing.
Did she lie about who she was?
Outside, the January air in Connecticut sliced through my dress. Snow dusted the driveway. The valet stared, stunned, as I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers.
My father answered on the second ring.
“Lena?”
