By the time I arrived at the ballroom entrance, my parents were standing against the wall like strangers at their own daughter’s wedding. The main family table—the one I had personally reserved for them—was completely occupied by my husband’s relatives, all nine seats filled.
My mother held her old pearl purse tightly with both hands. My father stood stiffly in his brown suit, the one he had saved up months to purchase, his smile fixed in place like an old injury.
I stared at the table cards.
My parents’ names had disappeared.
In their seats sat Victor’s aunt, two cousins, his obnoxious uncle, and his mother, Celeste, glowing in champagne-colored silk like royalty celebrating a conquest.
She noticed me looking and casually lifted her wine glass.
“Oh, darling,” she said loudly enough for the photographer to stop snapping pictures. “We had to rearrange a few things. The table should appear respectable in photos.”
My throat tightened painfully. “Where are my parents supposed to sit?”
Celeste slowly turned her gaze toward them, deliberate and cruel. “Somewhere less noticeable. They look poor.”
Several guests laughed quietly into their napkins.
I waited for Victor to say something.
My groom stood beside his mother in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, the same man who once cried while proposing to me, who kissed my father’s hands and called him “Dad.” His eyes moved briefly over my parents before returning to me.
“Don’t create a scene, Elena,” he murmured. “Mom’s right. Optics matter today.”
The chandeliers glittered overhead. The violinists continued playing. Somewhere behind me, the wedding planner whispered frantically into her headset.
I looked at my parents. My mother blinked rapidly. My father lowered his eyes.
And in that moment, something inside me turned cold.
