My legs did not move. They never had, not since birth, not in the way people like him considered meaningful. Yet my mind was working with perfect clarity, sharper than the crystal glasses on the tables and faster than the nervous whispers now moving across the room.
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A few men near the champagne tower laughed first, because men like that usually needed permission from one another before revealing what kind of people they truly were. Several guests looked away. Others stared openly, not in sympathy, but with the fascinated discomfort of people witnessing something cruel and waiting to see whether it would become inconvenient for them.
My ex-husband stood in front of me with the empty glass still tilted in his hand.
Blaine Mercer had once told investors that he could identify weakness faster than any market signal. That evening, standing beneath imported chandeliers in a mansion filled with startup founders and private equity royalty, he made the final miscalculation of his life.
He thought my wheelchair was the weakest thing about me.
