The amber spray of champagne soaked into the fabric of Nadine’s custom-tailored Valentino heels, but she didn’t look down.

"Your wife?" Chad choked out, his eyes darting frantically from Elliot to me, then down to Norah, who was currently occupied with inspecting her chocolate strawberry. "You're... you're married to Clara? This Clara?"

"The very same," Elliot replied, his tone remaining infuriatingly polite. "Though I realize nomenclature can be tricky for you, Chad. Back when you were busy leaking false stories to the divorce courts about her stability, you probably didn't have time to notice that brilliant, self-made women don't tolerate unfaithful, mediocre cowards for very long."

Nadine finally found her voice, though it cracked horribly. "This... this is an absurdity! A conspiracy! She must have trapped you, Dr. Marsh! You don't understand what kind of woman she is—she's unstable, she’s a menace—!"

"Nadine," Elliot interrupted, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register he used when confronting hostile hospital administrators. "If you finish that sentence, I will have my legal team file a slander suit before the wedding dessert is served. And trust me, unlike your son's corporate law firm, my legal representation doesn't settle out of court."

June, my oldest and fiercest friend from graduate school, stood up smoothly from the adjacent table. She walked over, holding a fresh glass of sparkling water, and offered a saccharine, devastating smile.

"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Vance," June piped up brightly. "Clara didn't need to trap anyone. Unlike some people who have to buy their social standing through family trusts and embezzled corporate subsidiaries, Dr. Marsh actually appreciates a woman with a brain. Crazy, right?"

Chad's face mottled into a furious shade of plum. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You shut your mouth, you—"

"Careful, Chad," Elliot warned softly, taking half a step forward. The sheer physical presence of a man who worked twelve-hour shifts saving lives and maintaining absolute discipline in trauma wards radiated an unmistakable authority. "You're in a room full of civic leaders, university regents, and my medical colleagues. Do you really want to throw a temper tantrum like a toddler in front of your mother's precious country club friends?"

Chad looked around. Sure enough, the city's elite—people who had snubbed him for months as Vance Global Construction faced quiet, mysterious financial audits—were staring at him with undisguised contempt and morbid curiosity.

Nadine grabbed her son's arm, her fingernails digging deep into his sleeve. Her aristocratic composure had completely evaporated, leaving behind a terrified, cornered woman whose house of cards had just caught fire.

"We're leaving," Nadine hissed through clenched teeth, her voice trembling. "Chad. Right now."

"M-Mom, wait, my coat—"

"I said, we are leaving!" she spat, turning on her heel. But as she tried to make a dignified retreat, her Valentino heel caught squarely in the puddle of champagne still pooling on the hardwood floor.

Clatter.

Nadine staggered forward, grabbing blindly at the edge of Table Five before collapsing into an undignified heap on top of a stack of linen napkins. A collective, muffled gasp rippled through the room.