“My dress! My hair!” Teresa squawked, spitting out a mouthful of strawberry cream.
She tried to scramble up from the smooth floor, but her cream-slicked shoes lost all traction on the polished marble.
Teresa slipped again, landing flat on her backside with a loud, messy crunch right into a fallen tray of chocolate eclairs, sending a fresh wave of sticky pink and brown sludge splashing directly across her face and pearl necklace.
The fifty elite guests, along with the federal marshals, erupted into roaring, uncontrollable laughter, pulling out their smartphones to record the sticky, humiliated former “queen.”
“Looks like your financial planning has a very sticky bottom line, Mother,” I remarked smoothly, walking over and handing her a single paper napkin with a bright, dazzling smile. “Fits your personality perfectly.”
Federal marshals stepped forward, hauling the dripping, strawberry-coated, chocolate-soaked Teresa by her sticky elbows and escorting her out through the main doors toward the patrol van while news cameras captured every second of her public downfall.
