Chapter 1

"How much was that ring of hers?"

At my wedding, Michelle's voice suddenly boomed through the speakers.

Every guest in the hall immediately looked up at the sound system on both sides of the stage.

Michael's voice followed: "Six thousand."

"Only six thousand?" Michelle's laughter was amplified by the microphone. "The one you bought me was a hundred and twenty thousand."

"How can they compare?" Michael coaxed. "Yours was custom-made just for you. Hers was something I won in a mall raffle."

Center stage, the champagne flute in my hand trembled.

Every eye in the room fell on me, but I remained calm.

Because I was the one who turned on that microphone.

The hall was silent for exactly four seconds.

After four seconds, my mom was the first to stand.

"What is that?"

She turned to look at my dad, then at Michael's mother Ruth sitting at the head table.

Ruth's expression changed in that instant as she rapidly assessed the situation.

The conversation from the speakers continued.

Michelle's voice became softer, as if she'd leaned close to someone's ear, but the microphone faithfully picked up every syllable.

"Did you think... she looked really fat in that wedding dress today?"

Michael didn't answer.

Michelle continued: "There's a roll of fat bulging at her waist. Standing next to her, even I felt uncomfortable for her."

Then Michael laughed.

It was a quiet laugh, as if afraid of being heard, yet the sound system mercilessly amplified it.

The crowd began to stir.

Michael's college friends were the first to react. A man in a gray suit rushed toward the sound booth, shouting at the sound engineer: "Turn it off! Turn it off now!"

Sound engineer Bob looked up at him, then at me.

I gave Bob a slight shake of my head. Bob didn't move.

The man in the gray suit shouted again, his voice cracking: "Are you deaf? Turn it off!"

Bob said expressionlessly, "The bride told me not to."

The hall erupted.

"She told you not to?" The man froze.

I stood center stage and set down my champagne flute.

Everyone was watching me—some shocked, some confused, some already recording video.

My dad's face was ashen, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

Ruth finally couldn't sit still. She rose from behind the head table, her heels clicking an urgent rhythm on the floor.

"Bob! I'm telling you to turn it off!"

Bob looked at me. I still hadn't nodded.

He sat behind the mixing console, motionless.

Ruth turned to me, forcing a strained smile.

"Sophia, it's a technical malfunction. Stop this nonsense."

I looked at her.

"Please, sit down."

My voice was flat.

"The show isn't over yet."