“You’ll never amount to anything,” Darnell Washington shouted, and the words hit Lenora before his hands did.
The ballroom had already gone too quiet. Five hundred people in tuxedos, silk gowns, diamond earrings, and polished shoes stood beneath chandeliers that poured warm light over marble floors so bright they reflected everyone’s shame. A string quartet had stopped mid-song. Somewhere near the bar, a glass clinked against ice. Lenora felt every eye on her, every whisper, every pause.
Then Darnell shoved her.
It was not a stumble. It was not an accident wrapped in anger. It was both hands against her shoulders, hard enough to send her backward, hard enough that her heels slipped beneath her and the hem of her simple navy dress tangled around her knees. Her palms reached for air. For a chair. For mercy.
There was none.
She hit the marble on her right side, pain flashing white through her hip, shoulder, and ribs. The breath left her body in a thin, broken sound she hated herself for making. Her cheek pressed against the cold floor, and for one dizzy second, the enormous room turned sideways: gold light, black shoes, glittering hems, Candace Moore’s silver stilettos, Beverly Washington’s champagne-colored gown, Darnell’s polished loafers planted in front of her like he had conquered something.
