The wine hit Jazelle Reyes before she saw the glass move.
One moment, she was standing near the edge of her grandfather’s funeral reception, trying to disappear into the quiet corners of the mansion she had once called home. The next, cold red wine was running down the front of her black dress, soaking into the fabric and spreading across her chest like a fresh wound.
The room froze.
Not because anyone was truly shocked. People like the ones gathered in Arthur Sterling’s mansion had trained themselves to react carefully. They knew when to gasp, when to look away, when to pretend something cruel had not happened right in front of them.
Caitlyn, the woman holding the empty glass, did not bother pretending.
She smiled.
“Oops,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You looked so faded standing there. I thought you could use some color.”
Jazelle felt the wine turn sticky against her skin. She could smell it now, sharp and sour, mixing with the scent of roses, polished wood, and expensive perfume. The only black dress she owned was ruined.
Across the room, Brenda Sterling watched with a champagne flute in one hand and no grief in her eyes.
Brenda was Arthur Sterling’s widow, though Jazelle had never been able to think of her as family. She had entered Arthur’s life ten years earlier with glossy hair, perfect manners, and a softness that vanished the moment no important person was watching.
By the time Arthur became sick, Brenda had stopped pretending around Jazelle altogether.
“Do not make a scene,” Brenda snapped.
Jazelle looked down at herself. She had not spoken. She had not cried. She had not even reached for a napkin.
Still, Brenda picked up a silver tray of champagne glasses from the buffet table and pushed it into Jazelle’s hands.
“Since you are standing there looking like the help,” Brenda said, “you may as well act like it. Serve the guests.”
A few people smirked. Most looked away.
Jazelle took the tray.
There had been a time when that kind of humiliation would have made her run upstairs and lock herself in the bathroom. There had been a time when she would have scrubbed at the stain until her fingers hurt, then apologized for being in the way.
But five years of living under Brenda’s roof had changed her.
Or maybe it had revealed what had always been there.
Jazelle carried the tray through the reception room with steady hands. The crystal stems chimed softly. Guests took glasses without meeting her eyes. Some had known her since she was a child. Some had sat at Arthur’s table and praised his generosity. Some had watched Jazelle carry medical supplies up the stairs at midnight when Arthur’s condition worsened.
None of them said a word.
The kitchen door swung shut behind her, muffling the rich, low murmur of the reception.
Only then did Jazelle set the tray down.
The kitchen was bright and cold. Stainless-steel counters gleamed beneath the overhead lights. The caterers had left covered trays along the island, and the smell of rosemary potatoes and overbrewed coffee hung in the air.
Jazelle turned on the faucet and dabbed at the wine with a towel. It did not lift. The stain only spread darker into the
