Page 12 of Trail of Betrayal
Elise hums, faux sympathy laced with poison. “Those can get infected, you know. Especially with all the… materials you handle.”
Color rises along Isabella’s neck. Her water glass trembles in her hand. Lawrence’s napkin is wadded tight in his fist. The restaurant hums on around us, oblivious—forks chiming, servers gliding past, the smell of butter and salt hanging in the air.
“He’s sensitive too,” I say softly, meeting Lawrence’s eyes. “Aren’t you, honey?”
He flinches. The sound of his name hangs between us like glass about to shatter.
Elise clears her throat, breaking the silence. “So much sensitivity at one table,” she murmurs. “Must make collaboration thrilling.”
Lawrence sets down his napkin. “Elise, I hardly think this is—”
“Oh, relax,” I say, touching his sleeve. He goes still, the way a deer does right before it bolts. “We’re all friends here.”
The waiter drifts past, and the scent of truffle oil follows him like a ghost. The table gleams under the lights, everything too bright, too exposed.
I lift my glass, meaning to toast—to new friendships, to old secrets—but as I lean forward, my elbow catches the stem.
The wine tips.
It falls in perfect slow motion, red arcing through the air before it lands across Isabella’s cream silk blouse. The color spreads instantly, blooming dark as arterial blood.
For a heartbeat, nobody breathes. The restaurant’s clamor fades until all that remains is the drip of wine onto linen.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. The horror in my voice is real. “Isabella, I’m so sorry—”
She flinches from my hand, napkin shaking. Lawrence just stares, paralyzed.
Elise takes a slow sip of her wine, her eyes glittering. “Twinsies,” she says.
The word lands like a bullet. No one laughs.
Isabella stands abruptly, blotting at her blouse. “I should clean this up.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, already on my feet. The two of us walk off, heels clicking through the hush.
Chapter 6
The bathroom at Lumière is cathedral-level obscene. Marble stretches from floor to ceiling, gold fixtures sculpted like something out of a Fabergé daydream, lights so perfectly soft that every woman inside looks like her own retouched headshot. Even the air is curated—rose, ozone, expensive hand soap, and, just now, a blooming undertone of wine and shame.
Isabella stands alone in front of the triple mirror, blouse splotched with alcohol, hand trembling as she dabs it uselessly with paper. Her reflection looks pale and uneven under the warm light, mascara smudged at the edges. There’s a wet rawness beneath her eyes, the kind that comes from holding back too much for too long. I wait a beat, letting the scene ripen, then walk in with the measured gait of someone who just happened to be in the neighborhood.
She sees me in the reflection. Her lips pull into a social smile that’s equal parts apology and threat, as if she’s ready to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this quietly.” But I don’t play quiet.
“Let me help,” I say, already at the sink before she can object.
She hesitates, just a breath, and then gives up, because that’s what people like us do when confronted with authority. We yield. I pump the soap, work up a lather, grab a snowy hand towel, and approach her in the glass.
“Club soda’s a myth,” I murmur, “but good soap is everything.” I press the towel gently to her chest, right over the heart of the stain. The motion is robotic.
“Thank you,” she says, just above a whisper.
“Of course.” I dab, slow and methodical, watching the wine bleed from cream silk to terrycloth. My fingers trace the edge of a messy, lined triangle tattoo on the back of her wrist. “That’s beautiful,” I say, as if complimenting her manicure. “Did it hurt?”
She laughs, brittle. “Not really. After the first minute, you don’t feel anything.”
“I bet.” I keep my eyes on her wrist, watching the triangles darken as the sleeve clings to wet skin. “It’s uncanny,” I add, “how well it suits you.”
Her jaw twitches, there, then gone. “You really think so?”
