The music resumes, a gentle melody that seems at odds with the tension in the air.
My sister, back on her feet, avoids my eyes as she moves closer to the dance floor.
I watch, rooted to the spot, as my husband takes her hand.
They dance, a slow, deliberate waltz that feels like a statement.
Guests murmur, speculation buzzing like an undercurrent through the crowd.
I sip my champagne, the bubbles sharp and bitter on my tongue.
My father approaches, his demeanor composed, as if nothing is amiss.
“Quite the night,” he says, his voice betraying nothing.
I nod, unsure of how to respond, the words caught in my throat.
He watches the dance, a faint smile playing on his lips.
