Noah shrank back. The light in his eyes dimmed instantly. He looked at me, then down at his mother, and obedience won. He turned and walked away toward the playroom, his small shoulders heavy with a rejection he was too young to understand.
I touched the banister where his hand had been. It was still warm.
“Hold on, Noah,” I whispered to the empty hall. “Just hold on.”
I took a breath, smoothed my red velvet dress, and descended into the party. The scent of rosemary and wine drifted through the air. Outside, the snow had stopped, but the chill remained, caught in the glass walls like a secret no one wanted to mention.
I sat at the far end of the table. Around me, Juliet’s friends laughed too loudly, their sequin sleeves flashing each time they raised a glass. Evan hovered beside her, proud, nervous, always slightly off-balance. At the head of the table sat Mr. Harold Baines, his expression polite but unreadable.
Juliet tapped her glass with a spoon.
“Before we start,” she announced brightly, “I want to thank everyone for coming. It’s been an incredible year for the firm.”
She glanced at Evan, her smile measured.
“We’re expanding the company’s image next quarter. Evan’s leading everything now.”
Applause followed, light and practiced.
Mr. Baines set his napkin down.
“Charles Langford always said ‘Integrity comes before expansion,’” he said evenly.
The room stilled for a moment. A flicker passed through Juliet’s smile.
“Of course,” she replied, raising her glass again. “But integrity and growth don’t have to compete.”
Evan chuckled weakly, reaching for his drink. I caught his eye, and for half a second, I saw the boy he used to be—the one who built snow forts outside our old house. Then he looked away.
I picked up my fork, cutting into the roast on my plate. The serving was modest, smaller than everyone else’s, but I didn’t care. The air itself felt heavy enough to feed on.
Across the table, Juliet leaned toward Mr. Baines.
“We’re rebranding,” she said, lowering her voice just enough for others to lean in. “New leadership, new energy. You’ll see the difference.”
Mr. Baines nodded once.
“I already do,” he said.
The candles flickered as a draft slipped under the door. I set down my glass and said quietly,
“Could I have a little more roast, dear? I barely touched lunch today.”
Conversation paused for a beat. The only sound was the soft hiss of the fireplace.
Juliet turned, her tone honeyed.
“Oh, Mom’s hungry tonight.”
A few guests laughed, unsure why but eager to follow her cue.
Evan’s jaw tightened. He reached for his water, swirling the ice cubes as though they could drown the tension. Juliet brushed her hand against his under the table. Small, deliberate, controlling.
I waited, still smiling as if I hadn’t noticed the pause or the pity.
“Just a little more,” I said softly.
Evan’s hand trembled.
“You’ve had enough,” he muttered.
“Evan,” Juliet said, her laugh light but sharp at the edges. “It’s fine. She’s just teasing.”
Her foot moved under the table. A nudge he mistook for support.
He lifted the glass too fast.
The motion was simple, thoughtless—one of those moments that happens before anyone knows it’s happening. The glass tipped. Cold water spilled forward, caught the candlelight, and splashed full across my face.
Gasps came first, then laughter. It started small, a nervous titter from someone halfway down the table, then grew into a ripple, a chorus. Juliet covered her mouth, pretending shock.
“Oh, Evan,” she exclaimed. “Be careful.”
My skin burned under the chill. I reached for the napkin beside my plate, dabbed my cheeks gently, careful not to smear the water into my hair. The room shimmered with motion—people exchanging glances, whispering apologies they didn’t mean.
Evan’s face drained of color.
“Mom, I—”
“It’s all right,” I said.
My voice was calm, almost detached.
“It’s only water, Mr. Baines.”
He hadn’t moved. He watched me with quiet focus, his elbows resting on the table, his glass untouched.
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