Layla had just lifted a slice of steak to her mouth when the words reached her.
She stopped mid-bite. The fork hovered in the air. Slowly, her hand lowered.
Something dark flickered across her face. Then heat rushed up her spine...hot, sudden, and ugly.
The metal fork clattered onto her plate.
She pushed back her chair and stood.
Heads turned.
Her heels clicked sharply against the stone as she crossed the lawn toward the buffet table, each step stiff with wounded pride.
"Uncle Gerald," she called, her voice already trembling.
It wasn't soft or sweet, like she usually talks.
She looked fragile and vulnerable.
"You're being unfair."
All eyes shifted to her.
She swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.
"Daddy already has me. He raised me since I was three." Her voice cracked despite herself. "Why would he need another daughter?"
The last word sounded smaller than she intended.
Pathetic, almost.
A ripple spread through the crowd.
