I strode straight toward them. I didn't have a plan, just a magnetic pull toward the epicenter of my destruction.
Elia spotted me first. Her eyes narrowed into slits, then instantly widened into a mask of faux concern. She whispered something to Bennett. He turned, his face hardening into stone when he saw me approach.
"Kelsey," he said, stepping slightly in front of Elia, as if to shield her from a threat. "Where have you been? People were asking."
"I was learning history," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Fifteen years of it."
Bennett's face drained of color. Elia just smirked, a tiny, imperceptible twitch of her lips.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bennett said, his voice dropping to a lethal hiss. "Not here."
"Why not here?" Elia chimed in, her voice pitched precisely loud enough to carry. "We're all family, aren't we? Or at least, we will be soon."
She reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. Her movements were exaggerated, theatrical. She swirled the glass, looking at me with pure venom disguised as sweetness.
"You look tired, Kelsey," she said. "Maybe you should go home. Bennett and I have things to discuss regarding the... future."
She took a step toward me, then feigned a stumble on her high heel. It was clumsy, yet entirely intentional. She flailed, her arm sweeping out and knocking into the towering pyramid of champagne glasses displayed on the buffet table next to us.
The world seemed to freeze.
The crash was deafening-a cacophony of crystal shattering against marble. Glass exploded outward like shrapnel.
A sharp, searing heat tore through my arm. A large shard of crystal had sliced through my sleeve and into my skin.
"Ah!" Elia screamed. She hadn't been touched by a single piece of glass. She had stumbled backward, safely landing into Bennett's arms.
"Elia!" Bennett roared. He didn't even glance at me. He spun her around, checking her frantically. "Are you hurt? The baby! Is the baby okay?"
"I'm scared, Ben!" she wailed, burying her face in his chest.
I stood there, blood soaking through the white silk of my dress, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the marble floor. The pain was throbbing, hot and vicious, mixing with the cold sting of spilled champagne.
Guests were gasping, forming a tight circle around us.
"She's bleeding!" someone shouted, pointing at me.
Bennett looked up then. His eyes met mine. For a second, I saw shock. Then, immediately, his gaze flicked back to Elia, erasing me completely.
"Get the car!" he yelled to his assistant. "We need to get Elia to the hospital. The shock could be bad for the pregnancy."
"Bennett," I said. My voice was weak, trembling against my will. "I'm bleeding."
He looked at my arm, at the red stain spreading rapidly.
"It's just a cut, Kelsey," he snapped, impatience flaring in his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. Grab a towel. I have to take care of Elia. She's carrying my child."
He turned his back on me.
He scooped Elia up in his arms and ran toward the exit. The crowd parted for him, granting him a hero's path while I stood bleeding in the foyer.
I stood alone in the wreckage of the champagne tower. The smell of alcohol and metallic blood was nauseating.
"Ma'am?" A waiter approached me, looking terrified, hesitating to touch me. "I called an ambulance."
"Thank you," I whispered.
I sat on a chair someone offered. I watched the door where my husband had disappeared.
He hadn't hesitated. Not for a microsecond.
In the ambulance, I didn't cry. I stared at the IV drip, watching the clear fluid count down the seconds.
At the hospital, they stitched me up. Twenty stitches. The doctor asked if I had someone to call to drive me home.
"No," I said, my voice hollow. "I'm alone."
I checked my phone. No calls from Bennett. No texts.
I opened social media. Elia had posted a photo five minutes ago. It was a picture of her hand holding Bennett's hand on a hospital bed sheet.
Caption: Scary night, but Daddy is here keeping us safe. Baby is strong. Love wins.
I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred.
Daddy.
He was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, while I was sitting three floors down, stitching my skin back together.
It wasn't a tragedy. It was a clarification.
I called the nurse over.
"Can I borrow a pen and paper?" I asked.
"Of course, honey," she said, looking at me with pity. "Do you need to write down instructions for your husband?"
"No," I said, taking the pen. The plastic felt cool and solid in my hand, grounding me.
"I need to write a list for my lawyer."
