I stood up from Table Nine.
My sensible black leather heels made no sound against the emerald turf as I turned toward the brick pathway leading to the front driveway.
I simply wanted to leave this circus and return to my home on the water.
Preston saw me moving.
His face flushed with sudden, indignant irritation. To a narcissist, the only thing worse than an opponent’s screaming fury is an opponent’s utter, deafening indifference.
He lowered his flute, his voice cutting through the microphone system mounted to the marquee stanchions:
“Leaving already, Audrey?” Preston mocked, his sneer carrying over the lawn:
“I suppose some people still cannot stomach the biological truth. Run along back to your empty apartment and your spreadsheets, darling. Some women were born to build dynasties… and others were born to live alone.”
A few of Preston’s junior commercial brokers let out nervous, sycophantic chuckles.
