Maya shifted her weight. Her ankles were swelling. Her chest had that familiar tight, warning pressure—not yet pain, but close enough to make her aware of every breath. She told herself to stay where she was. Smile if necessary. Last an hour and leave.
Then one of the women said, in a voice just careless enough to claim innocence, “I still think it was some kind of stunt. There’s no way Taylor King marries that on purpose.”
A pause.
Another voice, soft and delighted: “Maybe it’s philanthropy.”
More laughter.
Maya stared down into the untouched champagne. Tiny bubbles climbed the glass and burst at the surface like small failures. Her face stayed composed; years of being looked at had taught her that. But her hand trembled once, and she hated that they might have seen it.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly, mostly to herself, and turned to leave.
