My sister threw red wine across my dress uniform and told me I didn’t belong in that ballroom, my father told security to take me out before I embarrassed his future son-in-law, and I looked at the stain running over my ribbons, checked the countdown on my watch, and said, “You’re right. I don’t,” because in sixty seconds the room was about to learn why I had really come

The sound of glass shattering against the marble floor echoed through the ballroom like a sudden gunshot. A second later, a cold and wet sensation slammed into my chest as red wine began to soak into my Class A uniform.

The dark liquid spread rapidly across the fabric while dripping over my ribbons and sliding down the polished buttons I had carefully aligned less than an hour ago. Judging by the rich aroma, it was an expensive vintage that was being wasted for the sake of a predictable tantrum.

The live band did not stop playing their smooth melodies because this venue likely charged a premium to maintain the atmosphere regardless of the drama. I remained standing completely still without flinching or attempting to wipe the stain from my chest.

Around the room, conversations froze mid-sentence and guests watched with forks hovering in the air as three hundred people in formal attire found something more interesting than their dinner. All eyes were fixed on me as I slowly lifted my gaze to meet the person standing before me.