The long, mahogany dining table at the Kirkland coastal estate felt like an executioner's block.
It was the formal weekend family dinner. Francesca was seated at the very end of the table, isolated between two distant, lower-tier relatives who pointedly ignored her presence, their hushed conversations entirely excluding her.
Catalina, the glowing bride-to-be, was seated at the opposite end, placed in the seat of honor directly to Emery's right.
Francesca stared down at the plate of raw oysters resting on crushed ice in front of her. The briny, metallic smell hit her nose, and her stomach immediately rolled in protest. She kept her hands folded in her lap, refusing to touch her fork.
From the other end of the table, Catalina's eyes locked onto Francesca's untouched plate.
"Oh my goodness, Francesca," Catalina's voice pitched up, dripping with exaggerated, syrupy concern. "Are you not eating? Do you think the estate's chef didn't source the seafood fresh enough?"
The clinking of silverware stopped. The low hum of conversation died instantly.
Every single elder at the table turned their heads, their sharp, judgmental eyes pinning Francesca to her chair.
Arthur Kirkland, the family patriarch, frowned deeply, his wrinkles deepening with displeasure at the perceived insult to his household.
Francesca took a slow, shallow breath, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in her stomach.
"The food is lovely," Francesca explained softly. "I've just been having some stomach issues lately. Raw, cold food isn't sitting well with me."
Catalina immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in mock horror.
"Oh! I am so sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," Catalina gasped. Then, she tilted her head, her voice carrying clearly down the table. "I suppose growing up in your old neighborhood, you probably weren't accustomed to eating things like raw oysters anyway. It must be hard to adjust to our diet."
The insult was wrapped in a bow of fake sympathy. It was a direct, brutal strike at Francesca's middle-class background.
Several aunts sitting nearby let out muffled, condescending snickers.
The humiliation burned the back of Francesca's neck. She instinctively turned her head, her eyes seeking out the man sitting at the head of the table.
She just needed one word from him. One look of support.
Emery was looking down at his plate. He held a silver knife in his right hand, slowly and methodically slicing through a piece of Beef Wellington.
He didn't blink. He didn't look up. His perfect, chiseled profile was as cold and unmoving as a marble statue. He was completely ignoring his wife's public execution.
Francesca's heart plummeted, hitting the floor of her stomach. The fallout from their argument last night was bleeding into today. He was punishing her.
Seeing Emery's silence, Catalina's smile grew sharper. She picked up her crystal flute filled with chilled champagne.
"Well, let's not let my clumsiness ruin the mood!" Catalina announced cheerfully. "I want to propose a toast to my upcoming engagement. Francesca, you simply must drink to this."
Catalina stared down the length of the table, her eyes locking onto Francesca with a vicious, daring glare.
Francesca looked at the glass of ice-cold champagne sitting next to her plate. The condensation was dripping down the stem. If she drank that on an empty, irritated stomach, the pain would be excruciating.
But if she refused, she would be branded as the jealous, bitter woman trying to ruin the family celebration.
She looked at Emery again.
This time, Emery raised his head.
His dark eyes met hers through the flickering light of the candelabras. There was no sympathy in his gaze. Only a cold, calculating judgment.
"It's Catalina's toast," Emery said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Just drink it, Francesca."
The words struck her chest like a physical blow. It was a death sentence delivered by her own husband.
Francesca's hand trembled as she reached out. Her cold fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass.
She tilted her head back and downed the freezing liquid in one go.
The icy champagne slid down her throat and hit her stomach like a ball of lead.
Almost instantly, a sharp, violent cramp seized her abdomen. It felt like a fist twisting her insides.
Francesca slammed the glass back onto the table. Her face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen white. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out, her teeth leaving deep, red indentations in the soft flesh.
Catalina smiled in deep satisfaction, turning back to Hudson to resume her lively chatter.
Francesca sat frozen in her chair, clutching her stomach under the table. Surrounded by the laughter and clinking glasses of the Kirkland family, she had never felt more entirely, hopelessly alone.
