Chapter 8: Sophie’s Fingers Held The Navy Dress Tighter
Sophie’s fingers tightened in the navy fabric at my waist.
The movement was small, almost hidden beneath the folds of my bridesmaid dress, but I felt every pull. Her hand had gathered the cloth into a fist. Her other arm stayed against my body while I held her on the marble floor, one knee pressed beneath me, the other bent for balance. The napkin remained against her forehead. A dark mark had spread through it, and a smaller smear of blood still traced her cheek beneath one blue eye.
I did not try to loosen her grip. I shifted my body instead, turning my shoulder toward Preston until Sophie disappeared behind me as much as I could make her disappear. My arm closed around her back. Her white flower-girl dress brushed my wrist, stiff with layers of fabric. The ribbon at her neck had slipped slightly to one side.
Across the ballroom, Preston stood near the entrance in his black tuxedo. His red rose boutonniere looked untouched. So did his hair. Only his hands gave him away. They hung at his sides, fists opening and closing as his eyes moved between me, the heavy oak menu board, and the entrance above us.
The board lay on the marble a short distance from where I knelt. Its gold calligraphy caught the ballroom light. One corner rested against the floor, the other angled toward the guests. I kept looking at it because looking away felt dangerous. I kept looking at Preston for the same reason.
Above the archway, the CCTV camera remained fixed in its discreet mount. A tiny red light blinked, paused, and blinked again.
Sophie pulled harder on my dress.
I lowered my head without taking my eyes fully from Preston. My cheek touched her blonde hair, and the white ribbon brushed my jaw. I placed my palm over her clenched fingers. Not to pry them loose. To cover them. To let her feel where my hand was while I measured the room.
The guests had not become a crowd so much as separate bodies caught in separate decisions. Some watched Preston. Some watched Sophie. Others looked toward the doors, as if expecting someone to enter and make the choice for them. Shoes remained planted on the marble. A glass sat abandoned on a nearby table, its surface trembling from a hand that no longer held it.
I considered moving toward the camera.
The distance was not far. I could see the path between the board and the archway. But carrying Sophie across that open space would turn my back on Preston. Leaving her beside me, even for a few steps, was impossible. The pressure of her fingers answered that before I finished thinking it.
I considered reaching for the board.
It was closer, but touching it would mean shifting Sophie’s weight. The napkin might slip. She might see the wood again. Preston might see me reach for the object and decide that the room had given him another version of the story to use.
So I stayed where I was.
The decision felt less like safety than a narrow ledge. My body protected Sophie, but my position left the evidence beyond my hand. The camera could hold the truth only if its record survived, and the board could remain where it had fallen only if no one altered the scene. Preston stood between those facts and whatever happened next.
His gaze lifted toward the blinking red light.
Sophie’s fingers tightened again.
I felt the fabric strain beneath her hand. I drew her closer, keeping my palm over hers, and watched Preston take one measured step away from the entrance.
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The ballroom remained silent.
He was moving toward us.
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