I wanted to sink into the floor. Could she really pull this off? I glanced at Monica, whose face flickered between panic and indignation. If only she knew the truth, but I was trapped in this farce.
I could see a few guests exchanging doubtful glances, their faces masked with confusion. My mind raced, frantically running through memories I could use to counter her twisted narrative. But Susan’s words were disarming; she was painting a portrait of love I couldn’t deny.
“He taught me so much about resilience, about love that lasts,” she said, locking eyes with me.
It was both beautiful and terrifying. I couldn’t tell if the guests were buying it or merely entertained by this absurdity. Then Monica’s mother shifted in her seat, her gaze laser-focused on me. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back, and the crowd seemed to hold its breath.
