When the song ends, nobody claps at first.
Not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it feels wrong to reduce it to applause.
The silence is thick, sacred, and dangerous.
Then one person, an older woman near the front, presses a hand to her mouth and starts crying.
A second later, a man stands, face pale, and claps once, slow, heavy.
The applause grows, but it isn’t celebration.
It’s recognition.
It’s the sound of a room realizing it just witnessed a public undoing.
Davi steps forward abruptly, snatching the microphone from the stand as if he can reclaim control by holding metal.
“Enough,” he barks, voice sharp.
“This is inappropriate. She’s confused. She’s sick.”
Lídia looks at him calmly from her wheelchair.
Then she lifts her chin slightly.
“Sick doesn’t mean stupid,” she says, and the crowd flinches like they were slapped awake.
Bianca moves too fast, grabbing Davi’s wrist.
She whispers through clenched teeth, “What did you bring into my wedding?”
Davi’s face shines with sweat, the kind that comes from fear, not heat.
“Me?” he whispers back. “She’s doing this to me.”
But Bianca isn’t looking at him like a victim.
She’s looking at him like a bad investment.
You watch the power shift in real time.
The guests are staring.
Phones are recording now, but not for laughs, for evidence.
People who only came to drink champagne suddenly remember they have morals when it benefits them.
