That change surprised him.
His grip loosened by half an inch.
I used it.
I drove my shoulder backward, twisted my wrist along the weakest part of his grip, and tore my hand away. The movement sent me stumbling into the buffet table.
Serving dishes shattered across the patio.
A bowl of coleslaw flipped onto Daniel’s khaki shorts. A platter of ribs crashed at Evelyn’s feet. White ceramic broke into sharp pieces across the stones.
The laughter died.
I clutched my hand against my chest.
A red mark spread across my palm and fingers. It was not the worst burn I had ever seen, but the pain was deep, pulsing, immediate.
Daniel stared at the food on his clothes.
Then he looked at me.
Public humiliation transformed his face.
“You stupid—”
He lunged.
I backed into the grill, caught the metal handle with my uninjured hand, and shoved.
The heavy charcoal grill rolled across the patio on its wheels, forcing Daniel to jump aside. Hot grates rattled. Sparks rose into the bright afternoon air.
Guests scattered.
Evelyn screamed—not because I was hurt, but because ash landed on her dress.
Daniel’s confidence cracked for the first time.