After My Groom Protected His Mistress at Our Engagement Party

The room fell into a suffocating silence as Leighton moved toward us, her black funeral gown rustling against the marble floor like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Every eye in the ballroom followed her theatrical approach—some guests leaned forward in their chairs, others whispered behind manicured hands.

I felt Dante's grip on my hand tighten until his nails dug into my skin. The pain barely registered over the confusion swirling through my mind.

"Leighton," Dante whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "What are you doing?"

She ignored him completely, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the chandeliers. When she reached the center of the ballroom, she stopped abruptly, her black veil trembling as she inhaled deeply.

"I cannot stay silent," she announced, her voice carrying a practiced tremor that seemed to vibrate through the crystal glasses on every table. "Not when I'm still bleeding from the loss."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. I felt heat rush to my face as I realized what she was implying.

"My baby," she continued, one gloved hand moving protectively to her flat stomach. "My precious little angel that I carried for twelve weeks before my body betrayed me."

She lifted her veil just enough for me to see her face—eyes rimmed with perfectly applied black eyeliner that somehow managed to smudge in exactly the right places to suggest she'd been crying for hours.

"I lost my baby three days ago," she declared, her voice rising to a wail that echoed off the high ceilings. "Three days ago, I was a mother. And now..."

She produced a sob so loud it seemed to shake the champagne flutes on nearby tables. Several women in the crowd pressed hands to their mouths in horror.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I was speaking to her or to the stunned guests around us.

Leighton's eyes flashed to mine, something calculating flickering behind the theatrical grief. "Are you?" she hissed, before returning to her performance.

I stepped down from the small stage, my ivory dress rustling softly against the steps. The crowd parted before me like water, whispers following in my wake.

"Leighton," I said gently as I approached her. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Perhaps we could—"

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, flinching violently backward as I extended my hand toward her arm.

I froze, my hand suspended in midair. "I wasn't going to—"

"You were going to assault me in my moment of grief?" Her voice rose to a fever pitch, drawing more gasps from the crowd. "Just like you've been assaulting Dante's family with your... your..."

She seemed to search for the right words, her eyes darting around the room as if seeking inspiration from the shocked faces watching us.

"With your working-class manners and your cheap dress?" she finally spat, her lip curling in disgust.

I felt my cheeks burn as dozens of eyes turned to examine my gown—the one I'd saved three months for, the one I'd thought was perfect for this night.

"I think you should leave," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady despite the humiliation burning through me.

Leighton clutched her stomach dramatically, doubling over as if in pain. "See how she treats me?" she cried out to the crowd. "See how she attacks a grieving mother?"

Aunt Nancy appeared at the edge of the gathering crowd, her face a mask of horror and fascination. "Someone should call security," she stage-whispered to no one in particular.

"I'm not attacking you," I protested, taking a step back as Leighton continued to writhe. "I just think this might not be the appropriate—"

"Not appropriate?" Leighton's voice cut through mine like glass. "What's not appropriate is celebrating when I'm mourning! When I'm bleeding!"

The word 'bleeding' hung in the air like smoke. Several older women in the crowd looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Dante finally moved from the stage, his face pale as he approached us. "Leighton, please," he began, his voice strained.

"No!" she wailed, throwing herself against his chest. "Don't let her hurt me again! Don't let her near me!"

I stood frozen, watching as Dante's arms automatically encircled her shaking form. Something cold settled in my stomach as I observed how naturally they fit together—how practiced their embrace seemed.

Around us, the whispers grew louder. Some guests were already standing, craning their necks to see better. Others were pulling out phones, no doubt recording the spectacle.

"Emberly," Dante said finally, looking over Leighton's black-clad shoulder at me. His eyes held something I couldn't quite read—guilt? Fear? "You need to understand—"

But whatever he planned to say was lost as Leighton let out another piercing wail that silenced the room once more.