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When Marcus took the microphone, the room went quiet—so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioner and your own heartbeat. My palms were sweaty; my legs jittered under the table. I was terrified of what he might reveal, terrified I’d break down in front of everyone, terrified the laughter from earlier would come back tenfold.
But Marcus didn’t flinch.
He scanned the room—my cousin Laura, who had made that cruel joke about me being a “bridge widow,” avoided his gaze.
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