Chương 1 - The Weight of the Glass
The amber warmth of the ballroom chandeliers seemed to press down on my shoulders, casting long, fractured shadows across the white tablecloths. Around us, the chatter of eighty invited guests rose like a low tide, a dull roar of laughter and clinking silverware that hummed against my eardrums. My fingers tightened around the stem of the crystal flute. The glass was freezing, beaded with condensation that smeared against my palm. Across the table, the groom smiled at me, his black bow tie slightly askew, his eyes bright with the innocent euphoria of a man who believed the hardest part of the day was behind us. He had no idea what had happened ten minutes ago near the floral arch. He hadn't seen the elderly woman in the dark navy blue lace gown open that small vial with fingers as steady as a surgeon's.
"Cheers, Mama Eleanor. Thank you for everything," I had said, my voice sounding far too steady, ringing clear above the ambient hum of the room.
Now, the liquid sat heavy on my tongue, leaving a faint, bitter trace of almond beneath the sweet fizz of the sparkling wine. I watched Eleanor from the corner of my eye. She stood near the edge of the bridal table, her silver clutch tucked neatly under her arm, her gray hair pinned up in an immaculate bun that caught the warm banquet lighting. She wasn't drinking. Her lips were curved into a polite, untouchable smile, her gaze fixed entirely on me, waiting. Waiting for the chemistry to take hold. I swallowed hard, the muscles in my throat protesting with a strange, leaden sluggishness. A prickle of cold sweat broke out along my hairline, dampening the blonde strands of my updo.
"You okay, sweetheart?" the groom asked, leaning in close, his breath smelling faintly of champagne and imported scotch. "You look a little pale. Too much sun during photos?"
"Just a little warm in here," I managed to say, forcing my facial muscles to stretch into what I hoped looked like a bride's radiant smile. My heart was beginning to hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird, each beat louder and more frantic than the last. The warmth of the room seemed to shift, turning thick and airless. The white and pink floral arches across the ballroom blurred at the edges, bleeding into soft, pastel smears. The poison—or whatever chemical cocktail Eleanor had measured out of that vial—wasn't meant to kill instantly. It was designed to disorient, to paralyze, to make whatever accident befell me later look like a tragic fainting spell on a honeymoon night.
"I'm going to step into the ladies' room for a moment," I whispered, resting my hand on his forearm. The linen of his navy tuxedo felt rough beneath my fingertips. "Don't follow me, okay? Finish your drink."
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"Do you want me to come?" he asked, concern instantly softening his features.
"No. Stay here. Talk to your uncle." I stood up too quickly, the floor tilting beneath my silk heels. I caught myself against the edge of the table, my fingers digging into the white tablecloth until the fabric tore slightly. Eleanor watched my unsteady balance, her eyes narrowing with cold satisfaction. I turned my back to her, refusing to let her see me crawl, and forced one foot in front of the other toward the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom.
