At my stepsister’s 500-guest wedding, the same family who threw me out at sixteen let me stand in the back of the ballroom like I wasn’t even blood. Until the bride stormed across the floor, m0cked my dress, s.lapp.ed me hard enough to turn heads, and called me garbage while half the room laughed.

The slap landed with enough force to snap my head toward the tiers of sparkling champagne glasses. For a single heartbeat, my vision was filled with golden sparks from the overhead fixtures and the shimmering reflection of the mirrored walls.

The skin below my eye began to throb with a hot and stinging pulse that made my vision blur. I heard a woman gasp somewhere in the crowd, while a few guests started to chuckle behind their silk napkins.

The laughter grew until it filled the ballroom, which was far worse than if they had been cruel on purpose. It was the sound of wealthy people finding better entertainment in my pain than they did in the expensive wedding band.

Tessa stood directly in front of me with her hand still raised in the air as if she was shocked by how satisfying it felt to strike me. You do not belong in a place like this, she said in a voice that was loud enough for every guest to hear.