Eventually, I excused myself to the restroom—pregnancy bladder was no joke—and Keith insisted on waiting just outside the hallway like some stoic bodyguard-slash-husband material. Honestly, I wasn't even mad about it.
The restroom was just as glamorous as the ballroom, with marble counters, gilded mirrors, and soft ambient lighting that made everyone look like they had eight hours of sleep and zero regrets. I took my time washing my hands, checking my reflection, fixing a strand of hair that had curled the wrong way.
That's when the door creaked open, and someone else walked in.
I caught the silhouette in the mirror—tall, elegant posture, dark gown, but her face was shadowed by the angle and the lighting. I assumed it was just another guest and offered a polite, tired smile before returning my attention to my reflection. She didn't say anything, and I didn't push it.
Some women just wanted to powder their noses in silence. Fair.
