She shoved the enormous purse practically under my nose. “This,” she declared, tapping the logo, “is Hermès. Ever heard of it? Retails for about… oh, never mind. What’s yours? Goodwill special?”
My face flushed hot. I tried to pull my arm away. “Trina, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?” She laughed, a high, brittle sound. “Honey, you are the trouble. Always were.” She blocked my path when I tried to step around her.
And then, it happened. Fast. Calculated. She flagged down a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Plucked a full glass of red wine off the tray with predatory grace. Turned back to me. And without a word, with that same chilling smirk firmly in place, she deliberately, slowly, poured the entire glass of dark red wine down the front of my navy blue dress.
Shock. Cold liquid soaking through the fabric, hitting my skin. Dripping down my chest, onto my legs, pooling in my shoes. The smell of cheap Merlot filled the air. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just stood there, frozen, dripping red wine like a B-movie horror victim.
Trina stepped back, admiring her work. Laughed again. Then, turning to the horrified waiter, she gestured towards me like I was a spill, not a person. “Ugh, can someone clean this mess up? She’s leaking.”
That got the bigger laugh. Crueler this time. Someone – I didn’t see who – actually pulled out their phone. The flash went off. A photo? A video? Didn’t matter. The image was burned into my brain: me, soaked in wine, Trina smirking triumphantly, the crowd laughing or looking away. Ten years. Nothing had changed. I was 16 again, trapped in that hallway, utterly alone, utterly humiliated. I thought I might actually pass out.
And then, just as the shame threatened to swallow me whole, everything shifted.
The Storm Breaks: Enter the Husband
