RONALD
I hated these events.
The clatter of cutlery, the clinking of wine glasses, the low hum of a hundred fake conversations… everything was enough to make me want to claw my way out of my own skin.
It was always the same, every time I walked into a room like this, it felt like I was suffocating. The air felt heavy, like everyone was trying too hard to impress everyone else, that, and the scent of overpriced cologne and desperation clung to everything.
I glanced across the table. Catherine was sitting there, as perfect as always, a straight posture, her black hair falling loosely around her shoulders. Not once that night had she looked me in the eye. Not once. She’d spoken when necessary, smiled when required, but not for me. It was like I was invisible.
And I couldn’t tell if that
