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Not uncomfortable silence. Absolute stillness.
Inside the Onyx Tower penthouse, fifty members of Chicago’s upper circle froze in place. Forks hovered above saffron risotto. Crystal flutes stalled midair. Even the faint hum of the wine fridge sounded intrusive. At the center stood my sister-in-law, Madeline Vane, arm still raised, fingers spread theatrically—as if the spill had been an accident.
Cruelty came naturally to Madeline, and public humiliation was her favorite performance. Tonight, I was the target.
“How dare you address him in my home?” she snapped, her voice sharp and echoing. Her diamond-studded finger stabbed the air toward Julian Thorne, frozen near the appetizer table, quiche forgotten in his hand.
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