I was about to take a bite when my phone buzzed, a faint vibration against the crisp linen tablecloth. I glanced at the screen discreetly. Don’t eat. Just trust me.
It was from my mom, sitting just three seats away at the same polished mahogany table. My stomach clenched instantly. My husband, Ethan, wearing a plastic smile as thin as a veneer, raised his glass. “Please, everyone, enjoy.”
I didn’t know what was happening yet, but a cold certainty settled in my gut. Something was very, very wrong.
