Alta walked toward them, her white dress swishing with every step. She was playing the part perfectly-the concerned, sweet younger sister. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes darting to Angelo before settling on Annalise.
"Anna, your ankle..." she started, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I saw you wince. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Alta," Annalise cut her off, her voice sharp and cold. She didn't look at her sister like a sibling; she looked at her like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Greggory appeared right behind Alta, his face flushed. He took a step forward, trying to insert himself into the conversation. "Annalise, we need to talk. This is ridiculous."
Annalise didn't even grant him a glance. She simply turned her back on him, her focus entirely on Alta.
She walked over to the massive champagne tower. The glass structure reached up toward the ceiling, a pyramid of crystal flutes. At the very top, resting on a special cradle, sat a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon. It was an antique, worth more than most cars, and it was notoriously difficult to reach.
Annalise pointed a manicured finger at the top of the tower.
"I want that one," she said.
Alta blinked, her smile faltering. "What?"
"The antique one. On the top." Annalise spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Get it for me."
The nearby guests had gone quiet, sensing the shift in the air. This wasn't a request; it was a command.
Alta's face flushed red. She looked around at the watching crowd, then back at Annalise. "Anna, that's too high. I can't reach it. Why don't you ask the staff-"
"Are you defying me?" Annalise asked, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. She crossed her arms over her chest, the rubies at her throat catching the light. She wasn't asking as a sister. She was ordering as the heiress of the Knowles empire.
Greggory stepped in, trying to smooth things over. He forced a laugh. "I can get it for you, sweetheart. It's no trouble."
Annalise finally looked at him. The disgust in her eyes was barely concealed. "I didn't ask you. I asked my sister."
She put a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the last word. The implication was clear: know your place.
Alta's lower lip trembled. She looked like she was about to cry, the perfect picture of the victim. But Annalise felt no pity. All she could see was the woman who had cut her brake lines. All she could hear was the sound of her mother's name being dragged through the mud.
"Well?" Annalise tapped her foot impatiently. "We're waiting."
The whispers started. The guests were eating it up. The Knowles heiress was putting the interloper in her place.
Alta was trapped. If she refused, she would look defiant and ungrateful in front of the city's elite. If she accepted, she would look like a servant. She shot a desperate, pleading look at Greggory.
But Greggory was too busy trying to figure out Annalise's angle. He still thought this was a game. He thought she was acting out because she was jealous, and that if he just let her get it out of her system, she would fall into his arms.
He gave Alta a subtle nod. Just do it.
Angelo stood a few paces back, his hands in his pockets. He watched the scene unfold with a faint smirk on his face. He didn't interfere. He just watched Annalise work, looking like a man admiring a masterpiece.
Alta took a shaky breath. She smoothed down her white dress and walked toward the tower, her head held high, trying to salvage some dignity.
She looked up at the top of the pyramid, her jaw clenching. It was at least eight feet off the ground.
Annalise watched her, her face a mask of indifference. She caught the eye of the head butler, Arthur, who was standing near the wall.
She gave him a look. A specific, deliberate look.
Arthur understood immediately. He disappeared through a side door, returning moments later with a small, polished mahogany stepping stool, usually reserved for reaching the highest shelves in the estate library. It was elegant, but clearly too short and precarious for the towering champagne pyramid.
He set it up right next to the champagne tower, the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor.
Alta stared at the stool, her face pale. This was it. The execution was about to begin.
