Chloe looked toward the VIP lounge one more time. The doors were still closed. Julian remained inside with the investors. That seemed to matter to her more than anything I had said. Her gaze returned to me, and something settled in her expression. She was no longer trying to win an argument. She had decided to create a spectacle.
"Go ahead," she said, raising her glass slightly.
The voices nearest us faded. I could hear the jazz piano continuing several yards away, absurdly gentle beneath the sudden silence. Mara was near the bar, watching with her lips parted. One of the businessmen who had laughed at Chloe's earlier remarks looked away, his smile gone. The woman who had told Chloe to stop took a step forward but hesitated. It felt as though everyone sensed something was about to happen, yet no one knew exactly what.
"Let's give everyone something to remember," Chloe said.
Her wrist began to turn.
At first, I couldn't make sense of the movement. People lift glasses at parties. They gesture while they talk. They turn toward someone and make a toast. My mind searched for an innocent explanation because what she appeared to be doing was so deliberate, so unnecessary, that it seemed impossible. A small ripple crossed the surface of the cocktail. The orange peel slid against the inside of the crystal. The dark red liquid rose along one edge of the glass.
Then I understood.
I stepped backward instinctively, but my hip met the glass railing. There was nowhere else to go without pushing past her, and she had placed herself directly in front of me. My breath caught. The cool surface of the railing pressed against the back of my hand. All the lovely noise of the rooftop seemed to fall away until there was only the small, terrible sound of liquid shifting inside a glass.
"Chloe—" someone began.
Mara gasped. I saw her hand tighten on the tray. A guest moved as though to intervene, but there was no time. Chloe had already committed herself to the gesture. Her elbow lifted a fraction, her wrist tipped farther, and her smile widened. She wasn't losing her balance. She wasn't clumsy. She wasn't startled by another person bumping into her. She was watching my face with unmistakable pleasure.
And in that suspended second, what hurt most wasn't the thought of standing before strangers in a stained dress. It was knowing that the fabric my mother had so carefully handled was about to be treated as a disposable prop in another woman's performance. The memory of her hands seemed to rise so vividly that I could almost feel them smoothing the navy cloth at my shoulders. I wanted, absurdly, to protect that afternoon in front of the mirror from the person standing before me.
I met Chloe's eyes. She did not look away.
Then she tipped the crystal glass, and the entire dark red cocktail spilled down the front of my mother's navy gown.