I took the silver cake knife in my right hand, held the four-inch Christofle blade flat against my silk skirt, and walked three measured steps directly to the main podium where the wireless Shure microphone sat in its bronze gooseneck stand.
Luca’s hand slipped from my shoulder, his manicured fingers grasping at empty air:
“Jessi…?” Luca hissed, stepping after me, his bespoke midnight-blue Brioni tuxedo pulling tight across his chest: “Where the hell are you going? The videographer is queued for the parent dances! Get off the riser!”
reached the podium.
I did not wipe the blood from my nose.
I did not wipe the thick, white grease of the buttercream from my left eye, where it hung like a grotesque, melted mask over my cheekbone.
I extended my index finger and tapped the top of the microphone mesh twice:
*THUD. THUD.*
The concussive acoustic shockwave rolled through the Drake’s acoustic plaster ceiling, silencing the eight-piece swing orchestra in mid-measure. The cellist’s bow froze against the C-string; the double-bass player pulled his fingers back as if the instrument had gone live with high voltage.
Then, looking out through my single clean eye, staring straight into the dead-eyed, aristocratic face of my new husband, I spoke five words into the hall:
“The audio file has cleared.”
CHAPTER 2: THE BUTTON AT THE COLLAR
Luca stopped dead at the edge of the polished dance floor, his patent-leather Christian Louboutin shoes skidding half an inch against the waxed parquet:
*squeak.*
