I quickly apologized, grabbing a tissue to wipe her hand while repeatedly saying sorry. The commotion caught everyone’s attention.
"Isn’t that Bobby’s wife?" someone murmured.
I lifted my head, and Bobby’s gaze locked onto mine. His face was hard, still harboring anger from yesterday. Grace, standing beside him, clung to his arm, flaunting her position in my presence.
"Bobby, is this what Irish meant when she said she was busy?" Grace taunted with a smug smile.
"Let her be. It’s her choice," Bobby replied coldly.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Irish's POV
"Don't be like that. Now that Irish is here, let's take a photo together," Grace said in her sweet yet manipulative tone. Her hand gripped my arm firmly, ignoring the clear resistance written all over my face. She dragged me toward the altar, ensuring that all eyes in the room focused on me.
The room buzzed with murmurs that pierced through me like daggers.
"Is Bobby's wife really just a caterer? Goodness, look at her—how embarrassing." "Grace is so much better—beautiful, elegant, a true woman of class. How could Bobby end up with someone like her?" "Maybe he married her out of pity. They’re clearly from different worlds."
Each word felt heavier than the last, but the smirk on Grace's face told me this was her intention all along. She wanted to humiliate me in front of everyone. The worst part? Bobby—my husband—stood there, doing nothing. He looked uncomfortable, as if being near me was a disgrace.
I couldn’t take it anymore. With steady steps, I returned to my spot behind the catering table. But Grace, her smirk never faltering, followed me.
"What do you want?" I asked, trying to sound professional, though my voice trembled with suppressed rage.
Grace's smile turned sweeter, yet her eyes were filled with malice. "Just a small favor. Would you mind delivering that cake to the altar?" She gestured toward the towering, intricately decorated cake being pushed in by one of my colleagues, who looked visibly nervous.
This was another trap, I knew it. But for the sake of professionalism and Paman Jack’s reputation, I stepped in for my colleague. Pushing the cake-laden trolley toward the altar, I moved through the crowd that didn’t hesitate to throw more hurtful remarks my way.
"Wow, she’s really professional. Still delivering the cake for her husband and his mistress!" "Shameful. If it were me, I’d have run out of here long ago."