As one of the city’s most prominent figures, Ruslan’s reputation drew a steady stream of guests, each eager to raise their glass in a toast.
Smiling, they offered their well-rehearsed compliments.
“Mrs. Wyatt, you’re truly enviable! A husband like Ruslan is one in a million.”
“Did you know this event cost tens of millions? Every detail, every decoration, was personally overseen by him.”
I returned their toasts with a polite smile, neither confirming nor denying their words, letting their admiration float unanswered in the air.
However, as soon as they turned their backs, their expressions shifted. They began whispering among themselves, their voices dripping with disdain.
"She truly believes she’s adored, doesn’t she? Look at her, actually nodding at that."
"Just a useless cripple, clueless about her place in all this."
"Is she really this oblivious, or is she just pretending? Doesn’t she know who this party is really for?"
Strangely enough, their words didn’t pierce through me. There was no anger, no sting. It was as if their venomous whispers had no power over me.
As the party reached its peak, someone suddenly shouted, "A shooting star!"