The butler pulled out the heavy mahogany chairs in the formal dining room.
Before the staff could touch April's chair, Bartholomew placed his hand on the back of it, pulled it out for her, and waited until she sat down before taking the seat right next to her.
Gregory Poole, sitting at the head of the table, cleared his throat loudly. He raised his crystal wine glass, launching into a long, nauseatingly fake speech about how blessed the family was to have Bartholomew back in good health.
Bartholomew didn't touch his glass. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold and dead, watching Gregory perform like a dancing monkey.
Gregory awkwardly lowered his glass, his face flushing. He snapped his fingers at the staff to serve the first course.
A maid placed an exquisite porcelain plate in front of April. It was a rare, imported Brittany blue lobster topped with caviar.
The moment April saw the shell, her stomach violently contracted. The blood drained from her face, and her hands gripped her napkin so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Lorraine smiled sweetly from across the table. "I had this flown in specially, April. I know hospital cafeteria food is dreadful. Eat up, darling."
April let out a cold, sharp laugh. She opened her mouth to scream at them for forgetting that their own daughter was deathly allergic to shellfish.
Before she could make a sound, a massive hand shot across the table.
Bartholomew grabbed the edge of April's porcelain plate and shoved it violently away. The ceramic scraped against the polished wood with a loud, ear-piercing screech.
His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage. He glared at Lorraine.
"Are you attempting to assassinate my wife at the dinner table, Mrs. Poole?" his voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Dead silence fell over the dining room. Lorraine turned pale, her eyes darting nervously. "I... I was just trying to be nice!"
"April has a fatal allergy to shellfish," Bartholomew snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "If she even touches it, her throat closes up."
Gregory stared at April, his face flushing. "It was just a childhood thing! I thought she grew out of it. Don't be so dramatic." But under Bartholomew's murderous glare, he swallowed hard. Panicking, Gregory ordered the maids to clear the table immediately and bring out the steaks.
Sloane, seeing her parents humiliated, decided to change the subject. She tapped her fork against her glass to get Bartholomew's attention.
She batted her eyelashes, putting on a pathetic, helpless look. "Barty, my current PR firm is so toxic. Since we're family, could you give me a Director position at Reynolds Group? I could help April secure her status in your company."
April's jaw dropped at the sheer audacity. She was about to tear Sloane apart, but under the table, she felt a gentle tap against her left shin.
She looked at Bartholomew. He wasn't angry anymore. He was smiling. A cruel, blood-chilling smile. He was taking over the execution.
Bartholomew placed his knife and fork down. He wiped his mouth slowly.
"Do you have an MBA from an Ivy League institution?" he asked calmly.
Sloane's smile faltered. "Well, no. I have an Art History degree from-"
"Do you have experience managing hundred-million-dollar corporate mergers?" he cut her off.
Sloane turned red. "I'm really good at networking and hosting galas!"
Bartholomew let out a short, brutal laugh. He leaned forward, looking at Sloane like she was a stain on his shoe.
"The entry-level positions at Reynolds Group require a degree from a target school," Bartholomew announced, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "Your qualifications... wouldn't get your resume past our spam filter. Perhaps you should aim for a career more suited to your... talents."
The words hit Sloane like a physical slap to the face. She let out a high-pitched sob, covered her face with her hands, and ran out of the dining room crying.
Lorraine jumped up, furious. "How dare you speak to her like that!"
Gregory grabbed his wife's arm and yanked her back down. He swallowed his pride, desperate for the tariff money.
April sat frozen. A massive wave of pure, unadulterated adrenaline and satisfaction rushed through her veins.
She looked at Bartholomew. He turned his head and gave her a look that clearly said: Your turn.
