The glittering laughter that had filled the banquet hall moments ago shattered like fragile crystal against the sudden, alien echo of Evelyn's voice—broadcast, unmistakable, and sharp as a knife.
"Oh, honestly, Amy, bless your heart—you're just so… earnest."
The words sliced through the crowd, soft at first, then amplified as more and more phones came alive, the leaked recording cascading in overlapping echoes.
The air seemed to still, as though the chandeliers themselves held their breath. The soft chime of a dropped fork clattered to the floor, the sharp note jarring in the growing silence. Guests froze, expressions flickering from delight to confusion, disbelief bleeding into horror. Glasses hovered midair, the delicate crystal trembling slightly as fingers clenched unconsciously, eyes darting across the room in search of the source, the culprit, the escape.
Evelyn's face drained of color. Her smile, the same flawless mask she had worn so effortlessly all night, fractured mid-toast, lips parting on a soundless inhale, lashes fluttering like a moth stunned by sudden light. Her hand holding the glass quivered as though some invisible wind had rushed through the room, rattling her perfect composure. The faint flush in her cheeks from wine and applause faded to a sallow white that spread down her throat.
Lottie stood at the edge of the crowd, spine straight, hands folded lightly at her waist, the edge of one fingertip resting coolly against the clasp of her clutch. Inside, her heart beat like a war drum, thudding against her ribs with an insistent, feral rhythm. And beneath the thunder, a slow, molten satisfaction bloomed, thick and sweet on her tongue.
She let her breath slide out, slow, measured, the taste of champagne still ghosting along her lips. Her gaze fixed calmly on Evelyn—not a flicker of guilt passing over her face, only the faintest tilt of her mouth, the smallest glimmer of something electric in her eyes, something sharp, unyielding.
Across the room, Father's jaw tightened, the line of his mouth thinning into a hard, pale slash. His steel-grey eyes sharpened, flicking from Evelyn to the murmuring guests and then, like a blade sliding home, to Lottie. His stare lingered on her for a heartbeat too long, cold and deliberate, before swinging back to Evelyn. His grip on his glass tightened until the pale ridge of bone pushed against his skin.
Mother's hand, delicate and manicured, trembled as she lowered her champagne, the glass tipping slightly as though she might spill it. Her fingers fluttered toward her chest, grazing the heavy necklace at her collarbone, as if to steady the frantic rhythm of her heart. The polished flush in her cheeks, the warmth of effortless charm, bled into pallor, a fine sheen of panic rising in her eyes. Her mouth moved, lips forming Evelyn's name without sound, before closing tightly again.
Amy's wide, shocked eyes darted to Evelyn, mouth parted on a thin gasp. She clutched at Evelyn's arm, fingers digging in like talons, her nails biting into silk. "E-Evelyn?" The word fell from her lips like a question, a plea, already trembling into disbelief.
Evelyn jerked away, blinking rapidly, lips twitching in a panicked attempt at laughter. "It's… it's someone's idea of a joke," she managed, her voice cracking under the weight of her own unraveling. "Really—who would—?"
But the damage was done. The murmured conversations ignited like dry tinder, sparks leaping from mouth to ear, kindling into flame as guests leaned in to whisper sharp disbelief, soft-edged betrayal. Lottie watched the shift ripple through the room, watched as laughter became a blade, applause a noose. Eyes flicked to Evelyn and then away, smiles stiffened, brittle, fingers tugged nervously at cuffs and bracelets, the collective body of the crowd drawing a single, jagged breath.
Leo moved at the edge of the crowd, a dark figure slipping between clusters of stunned guests. His eyes found Lottie's, the flicker of a grin tugging at his mouth, the faintest tilt of his head in silent applause. His weight shifted easily, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing along a waiter's abandoned tray as though this were nothing more than a passing amusement.
Lottie's chest tightened, exhilaration flooding through her in a rush that left her head light, her hands steady, her mouth dry and tasting faintly of salt. And threaded beneath the triumph, somewhere deep and startling, was a flicker of sorrow, a sharp-edged ache she hadn't prepared for—the death of illusions, the brutal severing of a bond she had once wrapped in longing.
Evelyn stumbled back a step, glass slipping from her fingers. It shattered on the marble floor with a piercing crack, the sharp, crystalline shatter slicing through the murmurs like a gunshot. Evelyn flinched, her breath catching audibly as she turned in a slow, desperate circle, eyes wide, hunting the crowd for a lifeline.
"Really, this is absurd—" she tried again, the words tumbling too fast, brittle, skimming the edge of hysteria.
Father moved then, not with words, not with any dramatic gesture, but with the sheer, crushing force of his gaze. It pinned Evelyn where she stood, held her trembling under its weight. Slowly, deliberately, he set his glass down on the nearest table. The sound—the soft click of crystal on wood—was a pistol cocking in the silence.
Mother's composure splintered further. Her hand hovered, trembling, near Evelyn's shoulder, fingers opening and closing as though unsure whether to soothe or scold. Her lips parted, Evelyn's name a whisper caught behind her teeth, but she didn't speak, didn't move.
Amy recoiled, her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and glassy, shoulders curling in on themselves as if bracing against a blow. A soft, choked sound tore from her throat, the whimper of someone watching the ground drop away beneath her feet. She turned, half-spun, as though seeking an exit—but the crowd pressed in, tightening, a living wall of curiosity and judgment.
Whispers slithered across the room.
"Did you hear…?"
"I always thought…"
"Poor Amy—imagine…"
"And Evelyn—shameless, after everything…"
Evelyn's voice cracked, rising like a drowning woman's cry, desperate. "It's nothing—it's taken out of context!" Her hand cut wildly through the air, slicing at the intangible web of judgment tightening around her. "I—I would never—"
Lottie remained still, unmoving, the eye of the storm. Her fingers brushed once, lightly, over the clasp of her clutch, the barest shift of weight as she exhaled, slow and sure. Her pulse slowed, evened, settled into a cold, crystalline rhythm.
The scent of crushed flowers and spilled champagne thickened, a cloying sweetness twisting through the air. Guests shifted, shoes scuffing softly against marble, the glittering crowd drawing back into tight, murmuring knots. The edges of the room seemed to blur, as though the chandelier light itself recoiled.
Leo's hand brushed the small of her back, the touch feather-light, a silent question wrapped in warmth. Lottie didn't turn, didn't break the frozen line of her gaze. She felt the brush of him like a second heartbeat, a pulse of understanding slipping beneath her skin.
Father's eyes flicked back to her, sharp and cold, a spear of steel through the noise. The message was clear as if carved in stone: We will speak.
Lottie's lips curved, the faintest, sharpest edge of a smile ghosting across her mouth. Her gaze softened with something close to pity, something almost gentle, before sharpening again, hard as glass. She drew in a breath, the taste of champagne and ash heavy on her tongue.
Evelyn's voice broke, the last thin thread snapping under its own weight. Her hands fluttered at her sides, fingers trembling, palms turning up in a mute plea. The hush deepened, thick and trembling, until even the faintest scrape of a chair leg sounded like a drumbeat.
Lottie turned, the whisper of silk at her shoulders soft as a blade unsheathing. She moved through the room, past the darting glances, past the shattered smiles, each step carving a clean line through the chaos. The soft fall of her heels rang sharp against marble, a metronome counting down the last beats of the evening.
As she passed Evelyn, she caught the raw, ragged hitch of her sister's breath, the stunned, wide-eyed fracture of her expression. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—Evelyn's frantic, crumbling, Lottie's cool as the sea before a storm.
With one last breath, one last tilt of her head, Lottie let her smile flicker, slow and slight, and walked on.
Behind her, the ballroom cracked open: voices rising in a scatter of sharp, brittle laughter; glasses abandoned on linen-covered tables; the soft, rustling shuffle of feet stepping back from the epicenter. And in the center of it all, Evelyn remained frozen, the queen toppled from her throne, standing ankle-deep in the ruins of her own making.
At the far end, near the carved doors, Father lifted his hand, a small, precise motion. A summons.
Lottie felt the call shiver down her spine, the promise of another war coiling tight in her chest.
As the doors swept shut behind her, the sound of Evelyn's trembling denials faded into a thin, splintering echo, swallowed by the rising tide of whispers.