Something changed in Julian’s face.
Not loudly.
Worse.
Quietly.
Like some final door inside him had closed.
He raised the microphone.
“No.”
One word.
The ballroom went still.
Isabella laughed nervously. “Julian, don’t be so serious. I was joking.”
Julian turned to her. “A joke is supposed to be funny.”
The silence deepened.
Your mother lowered her glass.
Isabella’s smile flickered. “Everyone laughed.”
Julian looked around the room. “Yes. I noticed.”
No one moved.
The band stopped playing mid-note. The photographer slowly lowered his camera. Servers froze near the kitchen doors, silver trays balanced in their hands, watching as every guest began to understand this was no longer part of the reception.
Julian faced the crowd.
“Two hundred people just watched a bride humiliate her own sister and a five-year-old child.”
Isabella went pale.
Your mother stood. “Julian, this is not appropriate.”
He looked at her. “Neither was calling your daughter damaged goods.”
