“I mean, honestly,” she said with a scoff, “did you see what she was wearing? Someone with her body type should really avoid tight dresses.”
A murmur passed through the ballroom.
Christina’s eyes widened. The MC continued as if nothing was wrong.
“One of Christina’s most notable qualities is gossiping,” he said cheerfully.
Another clip appeared.
“…and don’t even get me started on the way she eats,” Christina’s voice continued on the screen. “If I looked like that, I’d never touch dessert.”
More whispers spread through the crowd while Christina looked horrified.
“Stop,” she said quickly.
But the MC continued. “And another.”
The next video clip played.
“And that hair? Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
Guests were openly murmuring now.
“That’s taken out of context,” she said sharply.
The MC tilted his head. “Oh?”
Christina looked around the ballroom, panic creeping into her expression as guests openly discussed her behavior. Her gaze finally landed on me. “You did this.”
I met her eyes calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The murmurs only grew louder around her.
Christina’s face flushed as tears gathered in her eyes.
“I’m not staying here for this,” she snapped.
Then she turned and rushed off the stage.
She moved quickly through the ballroom, her heels clicking sharply against the floor before she disappeared through the exit. The room slowly filled with conversation again as guests continued discussing what had just happened.
35- Evania
A week after the charity ball, life had finally started to quiet down.
The first few days had been chaotic. News about what happened at the ball spread through social media and gossip circles like wildfire. Apparently, public humiliation at a high-profile charity event made excellent entertainment for people who had nothing better to talk about. Luckily, they didn't have evidence to prove it. For the most part, I ignored it. I had better things to focus on.
Like surprising my husband.
The idea had come to me earlier that afternoon while I was looking through the photos from the ball and remembering his reaction to me that night. Now I was sitting in the salon chair, watching my stylist carefully glide the flat iron down another section of my hair. The heat sealed the strands into sleek, glossy perfection, and each pass made my hair fall smoother and shinier than the last.
When she finally finished, she turned the chair toward the mirror.
My hair fell straight down my back in soft, weightless movement. I lifted a hand, letting the strands slip through my fingers, and studied the result.
I couldn’t help smiling.
It had been a while since I’d worn it like this.
