But Samantha’s earlier words rang in my head like a command.
Don’t you dare sit on the furniture.
So I stayed standing.
A server drifted past with a silver tray of canapés, tiny perfect bites topped with glossy black pearls of caviar. My body made a decision before pride could interfere. I needed food. I needed something, anything, before my knees gave out.
I stepped closer and reached out with a shaking hand for one piece.
A sharp sting cracked across the back of my hand.
I flinched, pulling back as pain bloomed.
Danielle stood in front of me, eyes narrowed, face twisted with disgust.
“Put it down,” she hissed, loud enough that nearby conversations faltered. “Do you have any idea what you’re touching? That’s fifty dollars a bite.”
The room went quiet in the way rooms do when people smell drama.
Danielle’s voice rose, turning the moment into a display. “You think because he’s gone you can gorge yourself on what belongs to us? You want food, go to the kitchen. I’m sure the staff has something.”
I felt dozens of eyes on me, waiting for my reaction.
I looked for Justin.
He was ten feet away, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch, leaning against the marble fireplace like this was any other evening. He had seen it. He had watched his sister strike my hand.
Our eyes met.
For a heartbeat, I waited.
He shrugged.
A small movement. Barely anything. Yet it said everything.
What do you want me to do.
Then he turned back to the conversation beside him and started talking about cars.
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