Charlotte’s hand froze mid-air, the casual grace of her movement faltering. A wave of bitterness surged in her chest as she forced herself to sit down beside him. Her tone was measured, but there was a sharpness to her words, “Do you really think someone from a background like hers deserves such a grand venue? Brother Chris, I think a simpler one would be just fine.”
Her words lingered in the air like a thin veil of smoke, but Christopher’s reaction was immediate.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unyielding. The weight of his stare was oppressive, making Charlotte’s heart sink.
“Her background?” he repeated, his voice cold and cutting. “And what about yours? Do you think you’re somehow above her?”
The chill in his tone deepened. “Three years abroad and you’ve come back with prejudice? I thought you were better than that.”
A bead of sweat formed on Charlotte’s temple as she realized she’d misstep. She knew Christopher well enough to recognize the subtle shifts in his temper—this wasn’t something he would easily overlook.