Chapter 2 - The Fiancée’s Jealousy Turns Violent
By evening, the party was in full swing. Laughter, music, a river of tuxedos and gowns flowing through the foyer.
Camille moved through the crowd like she’d been built for exactly this moment, accepting compliments on her dress and her ring with practiced grace.
But Grace, who’d spent months quietly watching this woman, noticed the seams.
The way Camille’s smile vanished the second a guest turned their back.
The way warmth for Julian curdled into something cold the moment she spoke to the staff. Around 8:00, disaster struck in the kitchen.
Small, but enough to tip the night off its axis. A young server, rushing to plate desserts, collided with Grace, sending a tray of champagne across the counter and onto a stack of linens meant for the head table.
I’m so sorry, the girl stammered.
It’s fine, Grace said, already grabbing a cloth.
Accidents happen.
Let’s clean it up before anyone notices.
She didn’t hear Camille walk in until her voice cracked through the kitchen like ice.
What is going on in here? Just a small spill, Ms.Hargrove.
It’s handled.
Camille’s eyes swept the counter, the damp linens, the panicked server by the door.
Handled?
Do you understand who’s out there tonight?
My father’s business partners.
Julian’s investors.
And you’re back here spilling champagne like it’s a backyard cookout.
It won’t affect service.
We have extra linens.
I didn’t ask for reassurance, Camille snapped.
I asked how this happened under your watch. Grace kept her voice level.
I take full responsibility.
It won’t happen again.
Camille studied her a beat too long, something calculating behind her eyes, before smoothing her dress and walking out.
What Grace didn’t know, what nobody in that kitchen knew, was that 20 minutes earlier, Camille had watched Julian laughing easily with Grace by the staircase.
Watched the way his eyes crinkled. Watched a warmth in him she rarely saw pointed at her.
It was nothing. It was the same kindness Julian showed everyone.
But in Camille’s mind, already primed by old wounds she never talked about, that nothing had planted a seed.
And by 9:30, that seed had grown into something dangerous.
Grace was folding linens alone in the east hallway when Camille’s voice sliced through the quiet.
We need to talk. Grace turned.
Camille stood a few feet away, champagne flute nearly empty, eyes glassy in a way that told Grace this wasn’t her first drink since the kitchen.
Something in her face had sharpened. I saw you with Julian on the staircase, Camille said stepping closer.
We were talking about the flowers, Ms.Hargrove. He mentioned his mother.
I don’t care what he mentioned.
Her voice climbed.
Do you think I don’t see the way he looks at you?
There is nothing.
Don’t, Camille hissed, closing the last of the distance.
Don’t stand there and lie to me.
In my own house. On my own engagement night.
Guests were starting to drift toward the hallway, drawn by the raised voices.
Grace’s stomach dropped as she realized whatever came next wasn’t going to happen quietly.
This is my house. My party.
My fiance, and I will not let a maid smile her way into taking what’s mine.
Camille’s hand shot out and seized Grace’s wrist.
You’re going to apologize right now, in front of everyone.
I haven’t done anything, Grace said, voice shaking now despite herself.
Please let go.
Camille’s grip only tightened, and then in one violent motion, she grabbed a glass of the deep red hibiscus cocktail from a passing tray and threw it directly into Grace’s face.
The crowd gasped.
In the low amber light of the hallway, the red liquid running down Grace’s cheeks looked, for one horrifying second, exactly like blood.
May you like
Grace staggered back against the wall, hands flying up, someone’s glass shattering on the marble floor.
And that’s when the door swung open.
