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The instant after the wine left, my sister’s hand felt less like drama and more like something breaking cleanly in two. Sound vanished. The band cut off midnote.
Forks hovered in midair. And for a second, the only thing moving in that hall was red liquid sliding down my face and neck. My dress clung to me, my skin burned, and my sister stood a few feet away, breathing hard, satisfied in a way that said this was not an accident, but a choice she had been building toward.
At table three, a man in a dark suit stood up with the kind of steady posture that pulls attention without effort. I had noticed him earlier as one of the guests who looked more like a work contact than a cousin. Now he stepped into the open space between the tables and the dance floor, positioning himself where he could see us and be seen in return.
When he spoke, his voice was even and clear. He said he had listened all evening to talk about a particular beachfront house and to comments about a big gesture tied to that property. He pointed out that he had just watched one sister corner the other in front of a crowd and then dump a drink on her when she did not get the agreement she wanted.
He called that kind of pressure and public humiliation a serious problem. if anyone ever tried to use it as proof that an agreement had been made. Then he turned to me.
He asked if I had signed anything that transferred any interest in my house. My throat felt tight, but I managed to say I had not signed a single page. He nodded once, as if confirming a fact he expected, and only then introduced himself as an attorney who works with real estate and estates.
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