A gasp moved through the crowd. Someone laughed nervously. My face burned so hot it felt like my skin might crack.
I walked away, focusing on breathing, on not letting tears fall where anyone could witness them. My father intercepted me.
“Maybe you should leave,” he said quietly. “You’ve made your point.”
“My point?” I asked, voice low.
He didn’t answer.
I went to the bathroom to compose myself. Cold water. Deep breaths. A hard stare at my own reflection until my eyes stopped looking like they were nineteen again.
On my way back, I heard voices in a side hallway. I stopped just out of sight.
Brooke’s voice was sharp. “I knew she’d show up. She’s always been desperate for attention.”
My mother’s voice: “Should we have Ryan’s mother removed? She had no right inviting Emma.”
Brooke laughed. A bright, delighted laugh that made my stomach drop.
“Let her stay,” Brooke said. “Let her see how happy I am. How perfect my life is without her dragging me down.”
My mother lowered her voice. “Do you think she knows about Derek?”
Brooke’s tone went cold. “Doesn’t matter. No one would believe her anyway. They didn’t then. They won’t now.”
My hands clenched into fists. For a second I wanted to step out, confront them, scream the truth. But I forced myself still.
Because I needed more than my word.
Brooke continued, “Ryan doesn’t know anything about Emma. I told him she was jealous and unstable. He feels sorry for me.”
My mother sighed. “You’ve built a good life despite her, sweetheart.”
I stood there in the hallway, pressed against the wall, and realized nothing had changed.
Brooke was still lying. Still controlling the story. Still trusting that everyone would follow her lead.
When I returned to my table, Patricia was watching me from across the room. She stood, crossed quietly, and slipped a folded note onto the table.
Meet me in the library. 10 minutes. Bring your phone.
My pulse spiked.
I waited until no one was watching, then slipped away.
The venue’s library was tucked off the main hall, a quiet room lined with dark shelves and soft lamps. When I entered, Patricia was there.
And she wasn’t alone.
An older man stood beside her, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. His hair was thinner now, his face lined, but recognition hit me like a physical blow.
Derek.
The air went thin in my lungs.
He looked nervous. Remorseful. Like he’d been carrying something heavy for a long time.
