Amy Stone
The moment Clide’s voice cuts through the tension, the room shifts. Heads turn. Conversations die mid-sentence. And all eyes land on me—again.
I stare at Cassandra, her red velvet dress shimmering under the chandelier, her face painted with the perfect mask of victimhood. The same mask she’s worn for years.
“Oh, Clide, she pushed me!” she whines, gripping his arm dramatically as if I’d shoved her across the room.
Clide steps forward, his expression tightening with rage. “Amy, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s your birthday, and you’re behaving like this?”
I blink slowly. What the hell?
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, quiet and dangerous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Slap!!
Clide's hand contacts my cheek, it stings so bad. No one steps forward to help, they all just
