I didn't give a damn about her wailing. I grabbed her and started dragging her toward the exit.
Claude rushed over and pried my fingers off Emma's wrist.
When I refused to let go, he drew back his arm—and slapped me across the face.
Crack.
The sound cut through the ballroom like a gunshot. The chatter died instantly.
Half my face went numb, then erupted in stinging fire, as if a thousand needles had pierced my cheek. My right ear rang with a high-pitched whine.
Claude looked stunned. He stared at his own hand like it belonged to a stranger, unable to process what he'd just done.
"Ha."
I ran my tongue over the corner of my lip. Tasted copper. A hollow laugh escaped me as I took one step closer to him.
Emma immediately threw herself in front of Claude like a hen shielding her chick, every muscle tensed for battle.
"What do you think you're doing?" she spat. "Even if Mr. Stephens hit you, it's because you couldn't keep your legs closed! You betrayed this relationship first!"
I looked at her—this martyr's performance, this breathtaking audacity.
I was so tired. Bone-deep exhausted.
"You keep saying I filmed explicit videos overseas." My voice came out flat, drained. "Where's the proof?"
"Little girl, you think you can just flap your lips and destroy someone's reputation?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"She has a point—you can't just take one person's word for something like this."
Emma bit her lip, the picture of wounded innocence—a delicate white flower, trembling but unbowed.
"Fine." Her voice hardened. "You forced my hand."
She pulled out her phone and connected it to the venue's main screen.
The slideshow of engagement photos—Claude and me, smiling, happy—vanished.
In its place: a video.
A woman tangled with a tall foreign man, bodies intertwined. Her face was flushed with pleasure, lips curved in a dazed, intoxicated smile.
And that face—displayed in high definition for three hundred guests to see—was mine.
The ballroom erupted.
Mothers clapped hands over their children's eyes. Others leaned forward, gawking. Phones appeared everywhere, recording.
"Holy shit, she's wild!"
"Look at the way she moves—damn."
"Who would've guessed? She looks so wholesome, but behind closed doors? Absolute trash."
"'Studying medicine abroad'—yeah right. How many beds did she warm over there?"
"That's bold. Think she'll stay faithful after marriage? To just one man?"
The whispers were filthy, relentless, a tide of sewage rising around me.
Claude's face had gone a sickly green—the exact shade of the blanched vegetables on the banquet table.
Cynthia swayed on her feet, nearly fainting. She clutched at my gown, pounding her fists against me.
"I pitied you! Orphaned so young—I treated you like my own daughter!" Her voice cracked. "How could you be so shameless? How could you do this to my son?"
Emma sobbed, her whole body trembling, fingers clutching Claude's sleeve.
"Mr. Stephens, I just—I couldn't stand watching you get deceived by this... this used-up whore any longer!"
"You've done so much for me. Even if you fire me after this, I'll accept it!"
I folded my arms. A cold, bitter smile tugged at my lips.
"'Used up by men'?" I tilted my head, eyes locking onto hers. "I doubt anyone knows that feeling better than you."
Emma flinched like I'd struck her. Her gaze darted away—just for a second—before she shrank back into Claude's arms.
That tiny retreat was all it took.
Claude snapped.
He pulled Emma protectively against his chest, shielding her completely. His eyes were bloodshot when they fixed on me.
"Candice." His voice shook with rage. "How much longer are you going to humiliate her?"
"You're the one without shame. You're the one who's disgusting and depraved." He stepped forward, towering over me. "You think everyone else is as filthy as you?"
