My mother-in-law screamed when my husband drank my wine at his sister's wedding, unaware I had secretly swapped the poisoned glass.

The clatter of silverware against porcelain returned in tentative waves, but the air inside the grand ballroom remained stifling. At the head table, draped in ivory silk and cascading white hydrangeas, Martha Vance looked like a woman who had just seen a ghost—or rather, a woman waiting for her son to become one.

Her knuckles were bone-white against the gold trim of her plate. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged gasps. Every few seconds, her eyes darted from Patrick’s face to his throat, watching for the telltale clutch of airway constriction, the sudden spasm, the violent expulsion of breath.

None of it came.

Patrick took another forkful of herb-crusted beef, completely unaware of the invisible guillotine hanging over the room. He chewed, swallowed, and dabbed his lips with his linen napkin.

"Mom," Patrick said, his voice carrying clearly across the quieted table. "Are you going to tell us what that was about, or should I call an ambulance for you? You’re pale as chalk."

Martha flinched as if he had struck her across the cheek. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "I... I simply thought I saw a wasp on the rim of the glass, Patrick. You know how deadly bee venom can be. My nerves got the better of me. That is all."

It was a clumsy lie, born of pure panic, entirely unworthy of the polished socialite who spent decades manipulating county charity boards and country club rosters.

Beside Martha, Rebecca sat frozen. The veil pinned to her dark updo trembled with the vibration of her head. Rebecca knew. The young bride’s eyes were wide, glassy with a terror that was rapidly curdling into hysteria. She stared at me, her gaze sliding down to my hands folded serenely in my lap.

I gave Rebecca a tiny, sympathetic tilt of my head. The color drained from her cheeks until she looked less like a glowing bride and more like a corpse awaiting embalming.

"A wasp," Patrick said, his eyebrow arched in disbelief. "In an air-conditioned ballroom in late November?"

"Don't question your mother, Patrick!" Julian, Martha’s husband, hissed in an urgent undertone. Julian didn't know anything; he was just an exhausted patriarch conditioned to silence any discord that might embarrass the family in front of three hundred blue-blood guests. "It's your sister's wedding day. Control your tone."

"I am perfectly controlled, Dad," Patrick replied evenly. "I’m asking why Mom screamed loud enough to stop the string quartet because I took a sip of Caroline's wine."

"Patrick, darling," I interrupted softly, placing a warm hand over his forearm. The touch grounded him, cutting off his rising temper. "Your mother was startled. Let it go for now. Rebecca looks like she’s about to faint, and the photographer is trying to take wide shots of the table."

Martha’s eyes snapped to mine. Deep in their cold, calculating depths, confusion was warring with dread. She had watched Rebecca drop the powder. She had watched Rebecca set the trap right before the first course. She had watched Patrick drain the dark crimson liquid.

Why wasn't he dying?

"Excuse me," Martha whispered hoarsely, pushing her chair back with an ungraceful scrape that drew glances from the neighboring tables. "I need to... refresh my powder."

She stood so fast her diamond pendant swung wildly. Rebecca hesitated for a split second, then scrambled up behind her, trailing yards of French lace.

"Stay here," Patrick murmured to me, already preparing to stand. "I'm going to see what the hell is wrong with her."

"No," I whispered, tightening my grip on his sleeve. "Eat your dinner, Patrick. Let them go. Trust me."

He looked at me, his gray eyes searching, sharp with intelligence. He wasn't stupid. He had noticed the way Rebecca had avoided looking at me all night. He had noticed the sudden absence of the waiter who had poured that specific glass.

"Caroline," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "What aren't you telling me?"