A man in a tailored navy suit lifted his phone and started recording as though the scene were entertainment.
No one stepped forward.
No one said, “Enough.”
I fell to my knees on the soaked lawn.
The grass burned against my skin.
Without saying a word, I hugged my reusable grocery bag tightly against my chest.
Hidden inside it, protected by a waterproof pouch…
…my phone continued recording every second.
“I… I was only looking for Mr. Ethan Carter,” I murmured, deliberately sounding frail.
The young woman crouched in front of me.
Vanessa Mitchell was stunning in the polished, effortless way that came from knowing beauty opened doors.
She wore a fitted ivory designer dress.
Simple diamond earrings.
Perfect makeup.
A flawless smile.
And eyes completely devoid of kindness.
“Mr. Carter doesn’t meet with random women who wander onto private property,” she said sweetly.
“Especially not during his engagement party.”
