Patricia pov...
Everyone was looking.
I felt their eyes before I heard the whispers. The weight of them, heavy and sticky as honey, clinging to my skin, to the beige silk of the gown Lucian had once said made me look like a pearl. Now, I felt like a specimen under glass. The whispers were a low, buzzing hum beneath the dying music—not words, but a tone.
Pity, sharp and cloying. Satisfaction, cold and smug. And the clicks as phones were lifted, screens angled, recording the grand, public unraveling of Patricia Sterling. They were waiting for the collapse, for the tears, for the scream. They wanted to capture the moment the ice queen finally melted, so they could replay it, slow it down, dissect it over champagne tomorrow.
Poor Patricia. Fourteen years. Down on her knees. And he said no.
