By the time my sister leaned toward me across the bare table, the ballroom felt less like a wedding reception and more like a play I had been dragged into without knowing my lines.
Crystal chandeliers scattered light across the polished marble floor, catching on sequins and champagne flutes, turning everything glittering and slightly unreal. The scent of roses and roasted salmon hung thick in the air. Waiters in black vests moved between tables in that fluid, choreographed way that costs a great deal of money to make look effortless, carrying plates overflowing with food, pouring wine no one had to ask for, straightening centerpieces that were already perfect.
And then there was my table.
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