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“You are certainly among the top two.”
A nervous laugh moved through the nearest guests.
Sloane swallowed. “I asked Grant to bring me because I didn’t want to hide anymore. What happened between us was complicated.”
“Adultery usually becomes complicated when people try to make it sound poetic,” I said.
Her cheeks flushed.
Grant took half a step forward. “Vivian—”
I raised one finger.
He stopped.
That was the first small pleasure of the night.
Sloane looked around, noticing the attention now. Perhaps she had expected an audience. Perhaps she had wanted one. Women who wear another woman’s wedding dress to apologize are not seeking privacy.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” she continued. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“No?” I asked.
Her eyes flickered.
“I made mistakes. We both did. Grant and I—”
“There is no ‘we both’ that includes me,” I said gently.
The room went very still.
Sloane pressed on. “I know you must hate me.”
“Hate requires intimacy.”
Her mouth tightened.
Good.
“Vivian, I understand your pain,” she said.
That did it.
Not the dress. Not Grant’s silence. Not the cameras.
That sentence.
I understand your pain.
Spoken by a woman wearing it.
I stepped closer, slowly enough that every phone in the ballroom followed.
“Sloane,” I said, soft as silk over a blade, “you are wearing the dress I danced in on my wedding night. The dress my grandmother altered by hand. The dress that was stolen from my home. So before you borrow my pain, perhaps start by explaining how you got inside it.”
A murmur erupted.
Sloane’s face emptied.
Grant finally found his voice. “It wasn’t stolen.”
I turned to him.
He looked like he regretted every decision that had led him to oxygen.
“I gave it to her,” he said, too low.