Gemotions

He was standing near the bar, looking predictably handsome. Liam. Damn him. He caught her eye and gave a small, almost apologetic, smile. Sarah turned away, feigning intense interest in a particularly vibrant painting of a rooster.

Her knuckles were white as she gripped her clutch. The air in the reception hall felt suddenly thick, the cheerful chatter of the guests a grating symphony. She could feel the pulse in her temple, a steady drumbeat of resentment.

Later, she found herself cornered near the dance floor. He approached, his posture carefully casual. “Sarah,” he said, his voice low, “you look… beautiful.” She fixed him with a stare so icy, it could have frozen the champagne.

“You’re mistaken,” she replied, her voice devoid of warmth. “I look fine.” She sidestepped him, the rustling of her silk dress a sharp sound in the noisy room.