CHAPTER 3 – CHAMPAGNE ON GREEN SILK
The first visible act was small enough that everyone could pretend it might have been an accident.
Celeste tilted her champagne flute.
A thin stream of pale gold liquid spilled over the rim and struck the green silk wrap across Eleanor’s lap. It darkened the fabric instantly, spreading in a shimmering stain over the satin folds. A few drops splashed against Eleanor’s hand. The room nearest them went still.
Celeste drew in a delicate gasp.
“Oh,” she said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. “I’m so sorry. My hand slipped.”
But her eyes were laughing.
Eleanor looked down at the stain, then up again. Her expression did not change.
That unnerved Celeste more than outrage would have.
A waiter stepped forward with a napkin, but Celeste took it first and dabbed once at the wrap with theatrical gentleness. “You poor thing,” she said. “It must be so hard, sitting through all this while everyone else enjoys themselves.”
A man in a tuxedo shifted uncomfortably.
A woman near the sculpture pedestal looked toward the corridor, perhaps hoping Adrian would return before the moment grew worse.
No one intervened.
That was the part Eleanor noticed most.
Cruelty often survives because witnesses wait for someone more responsible to move first.
Celeste leaned closer, lowering her voice again. “After tonight, everything changes. Adrian won’t need to drag you into events like this anymore.”
Eleanor’s hand tightened only slightly over the wet silk.
Celeste saw it.
“There you are,” she murmured. “I knew you understood.”
Eleanor’s hearing device captured every word.
Across the room, two board members watched with growing unease. They recognized Eleanor’s stillness. She had used it in negotiations before. It was the quiet before a contract collapsed.
Celeste straightened, turning toward the guests with a bright smile. “Would someone help Mrs. Vale? I think she’s overwhelmed.”
Mrs. Vale.
Not Eleanor.
Not founder.
Not owner.
Just an inconvenient older woman in a chair, reduced to a title Celeste planned to outgrow.
At that exact moment, Adrian appeared at the far doorway, phone still in hand.
He saw the wet fabric first.
Then his mother’s face.
Then Celeste standing too close with the champagne flute still tilted in her fingers.
His expression changed.
“What happened?” he asked.
Celeste turned with perfect timing, distress arranged across her features. “I spilled a little champagne. Your mother startled me.”
Eleanor lifted her eyes to her son.
She wanted, for one painful second, for him to see the truth without proof.
May you like
He did not.
Not yet.
