The room was a blur of motion and noise, but I was acutely aware of the tangible shift in atmosphere. My father’s face was a mask of rage and disbelief as he stood above me, his chest heaving, his world unraveling at the seams. The crowd was a chaotic sea of murmurings and shocked expressions as guests processed what they had just witnessed.
The recording phone’s red dot blinked like an unwavering eye, capturing every second of this disastrous moment. It was ironic, really, considering the meticulous image Charles Grant had always curated—an image now shattered for all to see. I realized then that this would be the turning point, not just for me, but for everyone in that room.
Two security personnel, hired for the wedding, rushed to my side, helping me to my feet. I swayed, my vision still blurred, but I refused to falter any further. Standing tall, I could feel the collective gaze of the room fixed on me—waiting, watching, wondering what would happen next.
