We made it back to the grand hall of the pack house, and the doors opened like the gates of heaven. Inside, the venue was still frozen in that awkward post-chaos stillness.
Half-eaten hors d'oeuvres sat on silver trays, a champagne flute teetered dangerously close to a bridesmaid's elbow, and someone's veil was hanging from a chandelier. No one dared speak above a murmur.
Then my not-so-proud father—rose to his feet. I could feel the weight of his gaze like a branding iron on my skin. For a moment, I worried he might try to salvage Rosa's dignity, make excuses, or worse—blame me. But then he did something I never expected.
He bowed his head.
