The bride’s father, Mr. Robert Harrison, took the microphone. He was a heavy-set man, built like a bulldog in a three-thousand-dollar tuxedo, with a voice that rumbled from deep within his chest. He was the owner of Harrison & Associates, a construction empire that dominated the city’s skyline. Everyone knew him. Everyone respected him—or so they thought.
He raised his glass of vintage champagne, the bubbles catching the light of the crystal chandeliers. The room went silent.
“I want to propose a toast to my daughter, Sarah,” he began, his voice smooth, practiced. “She has always been stubborn, ever since she was a little girl with scraped knees. She always wanted what she couldn’t have. And today… well, today she insisted on marrying this boy.”
There was a ripple of nervous laughter. I saw Michael smile uncertainly, trying to be a good sport.
Then Robert Harrison turned his gaze directly toward my son. His eyes were cold, devoid of warmth. He added, “Let’s be honest. This kid is an idiot. He has nothing to offer a girl like Sarah. But my daughter insisted on marrying him, so here we are.”
The hall erupted in laughter. It wasn’t warm laughter; it was the cruel, sycophantic laughter of people who fear a powerful man. I saw my son’s face crumble. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving him ghostly pale. His hands, resting on the white tablecloth, began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked down at his plate, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.
