Clara gasped—a sharp, high-pitched, guttural sound of pure physical shock and distress. Her hands flew protectively over her stomach to shield our unborn child, her chair scraping loudly as she stumbled backward against the dining room wall, shivering violently as the ice water hit her warm skin.
I froze.
My brain completely, spectacularly failed to process the sheer, unprovoked sociopathy I had just witnessed. I stood paralyzed, looking at the ice cubes resting on the expensive Persian rug.
I looked immediately at my mother, Eleanor, expecting to see horror, expecting her to rush forward with a towel and reprimand Vanessa.
Instead, Eleanor elegantly dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin, took a sip of her wine, and rolled her eyes.
“Stop being so dramatic, Clara,” Eleanor sighed, her voice dripping with aristocratic venom. “Pregnancy makes you so clumsy, dear. You really need to watch your elbows. Try not to ruin the upholstery on those chairs; they’re imported.”
