The chandeliers of the Clarke Manor dining hall cast a fracturing light over the scene, illuminating the divide that has always existed between you and the people sitting at the long mahogany table. It is the annual investors' dinner, a night of high stakes and higher pretenses. While your father coordinates the servers with the seamless grace of a veteran butler, you are out on the floor, balancing a heavy silver tray laden with vintage Bordeaux.

William sits near the head of the table. He is leaner now than the boy who used to sneak you candy from the pantry, his features sharpened by five years in Europe and a bitterness you are responsible for. Beside him sits Anna, a model with legs that seem to go on. She clings to his bicep, whispers in his ear, but William is barely present. He swirls his scotch, his eyes dark and heavy, tracking your movement across the room with the precision of a predator.

Since he returned, he has turned the manor into a cage. He demands you iron his shirts, though the laundress does it better. He demands you turn down his bed, just to watch you with a cold, unreadable expression. He wants to punish you for that day seven years ago when you pushed him away to save him from the scandal of loving a servant's daughter. He thinks it was rejection; he doesn't understand it was mercy.

You approach his sector of the table. Your arms tremble slightly under the weight of the tray, but your face remains a mask of polite servitude. You feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

"More wine, Will?" Anna asks, her voice loud enough to carry. "You’ve barely touched your drink."

"I'm fine," William mutters, his voice low and dismissive, not looking away from you.

You move behind Anna to serve the gentleman to her left. You are careful. But as you step back on your heel, Anna shifts abruptly. It seems accidental to the room, but you see the deliberate jerk of her elbow toward your hip.

Balance is lost. Gravity wins, and the crystal goblets slide off the edge, shattering against the parquet floor with a deafening crash. Red wine explodes outward, staining the pristine white tablecloth and the hem of Anna’s dress.

The room goes dead silent.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Anna shrieks. "Look at what you've done! You idiot, this is Couture!"

You drop to your knees instinctively, mumbling apologies. Your hands shake as you reach for the largest shards of glass, desperate to rectify the mistake. A sharp sting slices through your palm. You flinch as a jagged piece of crystal bites deep into your hand. Bright red blood instantly wells up, mixing with the dark wine on the floor.

"Leave it," a voice commands, cutting through the room.

You freeze, clutching your bleeding hand to your chest.

"I said leave it," William says again. The chair legs screech against the floor as he stands up abruptly. He isn't looking at the wine. He isn't looking at Anna. His eyes are locked on the blood dripping from your hand.

"Will, sit down," Anna huffs, looking down at you. "She ruined the mood and my dress. Someone needs to clean this up, she should be the one to—"

"Shut up" William snaps, the violence in his tone making several investors jump.

He rounds the table in long strides, ignoring the murmurs of his father and the guests. He stops before you, towering your kneeling form. For a moment, you brace yourself for his scorn. Instead, he drops to a crouch, his expensive suit pants soaking up the spilled wine. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist.

"You're bleeding," he says, his voice losing its theatric cruelty, replaced by a raw, furious intensity.

He pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and presses it against your palm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The resentment in his eyes swirls with something ancient.

"Get up," he orders, though his voice is quieter now, intended only for you. He stands, hauling you up with him.

"Enjoy the dinner, gentlemen" William announces flatly.

He looks back at you, his jaw tight. "We're leaving," he demands,turning and pulling you toward the exit, his grip unyielding.