The room seemed to shrink as the air became thick with tension. Each pair of eyes was locked onto the unfolding drama, a morbid curiosity tethering every diner to our table. I held my breath, unsure of what to expect next as the man in the suit approached. His presence was as commanding as the sudden storm that disrupts a calm day.
“Ms. Williams,” he said with the kind of deference that suggested he was used to dealing with individuals of significant importance. “Your helicopter is ready.”
A ripple of whispers surged through the restaurant, diners craning their necks to witness the spectacle. My family, who had just pronounced judgment on my life, were now mute, their expressions frozen somewhere between disbelief and confusion.
“Helicopter?” Derek finally managed to stammer, his brow furrowing as he recalibrated his assumptions. It was an accusation, a desperate attempt to reassert control over the narrative that was slipping from his grasp.
