I walk toward the stage because there’s nowhere else to go. The sound of my nervous breathing is drowned out by applause. People are clapping. They think this is entertainment. They think I’m in on the joke.
I climb the steps to the stage. The emcee is grinning at me like I’m a prize pig at a county fair.
“Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t she stunning?”
More applause rings out, along with a wolf whistle from somewhere in the back.
I scan the room, looking for Kir, or an exit, or anyone who might help.
He’s taken up a station near the back of the ballroom with his arms crossed and his face unreadable. He doesn’t clap or smile. He only watches.
The emcee, an older man with a sweaty mustache and a badly knotted bow tie, touches my elbow. I flinch. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. Come stand right
