The emcee, sensing drama but not danger, stepped forward awkwardly.
“Perhaps the bride’s sister would like to say a few words?”
My father moved fast.
“That won’t be necessary.”
But Marcus Vale turned his head slightly.
“I’d like to hear her.”
That was all it took.
A microphone appeared in my hand.
The ballroom fell into a suffocating hush.
My mother looked as if she might faint. Sarah’s eyes begged me not to ruin the image she had spent her life protecting.
I looked at my father.
The man who once reduced me to an insult.
The man who taught me that blood without mercy is only biology.
Then I looked at the guests.
“Ten years ago,” I began, “my family taught me something important about branding.”
My father closed his eyes.