Chapter 3

The mood at the table shifted. The fake smiles vanished, replaced by a collective hostility.

"Yeah, Gabby," Nicole chimed in, her voice dripping with venom. "You always had that attitude. Like you were smarter than all of us."

"I just have an early morning," I said, trying to keep my voice even. I needed to de-escalate. My security protocol was clear: avoid confrontation unless absolutely necessary.

Matthew laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "An early morning for what? Your shift at the coffee shop? Come on, have a drink with us. Loosen up."

He shoved a glass of whiskey into my hand. "I' ll tell you what. I' ve got my old Ford F-150 parked out back. It' s a piece of junk, but it runs. You chug this whole glass right now, and the truck is yours. A gift. So you don' t have to take Ubers everywhere like a loser."

The group roared with laughter. They were enjoying the show.

"No, thank you, Matthew," I said, placing the glass back on the table. My hand was steady. I would not let them see me rattled.

His face darkened. The rejection, even a small one, was something his ego couldn' t handle. "Too good for my whiskey now, too? Or my truck?"

"I just don' t want it."

"Fine," he spat. He turned to Nicole. "Get her something she might like. One of the good bottles."

Nicole' s eyes lit up with malicious glee. She glided over to the bar and returned with a bottle of red wine and a single, large glass.

"Here, Gabby," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "This is a special occasion. You should have a glass of this. It' s a 2005 Screaming Eagle. Very rare."

She poured the wine, her movements exaggerated and clumsy. As she handed me the glass, her hand "slipped." The glass tumbled through the air, shattering on the polished floor, splashing deep red wine across my shoes and the leg of my pants.

There was a collective gasp, followed by a theatrical silence.

Nicole clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god! I am so, so sorry! That was the last bottle!"

Matthew stepped forward, his face a mask of fake concern that quickly morphed into anger. "That bottle was worth ten thousand dollars! It was a gift from a client!"

He pointed a finger at me. "You made her nervous! You' re paying for that."

The trap was sprung. It was so clumsy, so transparent, but in this room, with this audience, it didn' t matter. They were all on his side.