Behind her, several finance executives smirked into their glasses.
Beside me, my four-year-old daughter, Mia, tightened her hand around mine. She had been excited all day about wearing her pink dress and seeing what she called a princess castle.
Now she looked afraid.
“Mommy,” she whispered, “did we do something wrong?”
Those words hurt more than Vivian’s insult.
“I’m not with catering,” I said calmly.
Vivian blinked, irritated that I had answered.
“Then who are you? This is an executive event. Invitation only.”
“I know,” I replied. “I made the guest list.”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the music.
“Vivian, darling, I see you’ve met—”
Robert Blackwell, the CEO, stopped mid-sentence. His face went pale.
“Ms. Hart,” he stammered. “I didn’t realize you were attending this year.”
Mia pressed against my leg.
“I almost didn’t,” I said. “But I wanted my daughter to see our annual celebration.”
“Your daughter?” Vivian repeated, glancing down.
Then she lifted her chin. “I’m Vivian Blackwell.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
The executives who had laughed suddenly became fascinated by their drinks.