I found a quiet corner near the window, the glass cool against my back as I leaned against it. The room buzzed with conversations, but none of it felt real.
"Not enjoying the party?"
I turned to see Jonathan, Victor's son, a glass of whiskey in his hand, leaning casually against the wall beside me. His smirk was lazy, almost bored.
"Just taking it all in," I said flatly.
He chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You're a terrible liar."
I didn't respond, my gaze drifting back to the crowd.
"You'll get used to it," Jonathan said, his tone lighter now.
I glanced at him, frowning. "Used to what?"
"This," he said, gesturing to the room. "The parties, the people, the… show."
I didn't reply.
Jonathan's smirk softened into something almost genuine. "Good luck," he said quietly before walking away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
"Maria… it's time for dinner."
I turned to see my father gesturing me to join them at the dining.
I took a seat near the end, far from my father, Ophelia and Victor.
The food was exquisite, but I barely touched it.
"Maria," Victor said, suddenly, his voice cutting through the chatter.
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth.
"I was just telling you father how impressed I am with his work," Victor continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "But we think it's time you start contributing."
I set my fork down slowly, the sound deliberate. "Contributing?"
"Yes," he said, his smile sharp. "It's time you earned your place in the family."
The room fell silent. Even Ophelia seemed to pause, her glass hovering mid-air. My father's eyes flicked toward me but didn't hold my gaze.
"What exactly is my place?" I asked, my voice steady, though my chest felt like it was about to explode.
Victor leaned back in his chair, his movements slow. "That's what we'll be discussing."
My fingers curled against my lap, my nails digging into my palms. The words hung between us, heavy and unresolved.
Before I could respond, the sharp sound of glass shattering broke the moment.
All heads turned towards the far end of the table, where my father sat.
His face froze, his expression empty, like he'd just heard the punchline to a cruel joke and couldn't quite understand it.
The dark stain from the champagne, spread across the table cloth starting small, blooming like ink in water.
"Dad?" The word left my lips before I could think.
Someone screamed. I flinched, the sound breaking through the numbness creeping over me. My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood, the motion jerky, unsteady.
"Dad!" I said louder, my voice panicking.
I didn't hear the guests panic. I didn't feel the hands brushing past me as people ran. My feet carried me forward on their own, closer to him, to the blood pooling beneath his head.
This couldn't be real. It couldn't.
I reached for him, my fingers trembling as I touched his shoulder. His suit felt warm. The fabric was soft beneath my hand, but his body didn't move.
"Get up," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Please."
"Maria!" A voice broke through the haze. A hand grabbed my arm, pulling me back roughly.
"Let go!" I screamed, yanking free, falling to my knees beside him.
The blood was everywhere now, dripping onto the floor. My hands hovered over him, useless. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to stop this.
"Dad, wake up," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "You can't…"
A shadow loomed over me
"Maria!" The voice harsher now, firmer. Victor. His hand clamped around my arm again pulling me away.
"He's gone," Victor said, his voice low.
"No," I said, shaking my head refusing to look at him. "No, he's not. He can't be."
"Maria," Victor said again, his grip tightening.
I turned to him, my lips parting to ask the question I couldn't form. But before I could speak, he pulled me to the floor, his body shielding mine.
Another sound broke the chaos, a sharp high-pitched crack. A second shot.
The chandelier above shattered, Glass raining down in a glittering cascade. The guests screamed louder, some dropping to the floor, others fleeing toward the door.
I felt Victor's weight pressing me down, his breath hot against my ear. "Stay still," he hissed.
"Don't tell me what to do"
I twisted beneath him, managing to push myself up enough to look toward the toward the table. There she was. Ophelia.
Her face was pale, her her makeup smeared but her eyes…. her eyes were clear.
She knew.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but my throat closed up, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
The sirens came next, their wail cutting through the noise like a knife. I stared at my father's still form, the blood still spreading, still warm.
I didn't move. I couldn't
Something had been ripped away and I wasn't sure if I'd ever get it back.