But the apology was lost in the click-clack of heels on marble. Vanessa was storming toward us, her silver dress billowing behind her like storm clouds. The crowd parted, not out of respect, but out of the instinctual fear of a predator on the hunt.

“What,” Vanessa hissed, her voice vibrating with rage, “is wrong with your daughter?”

And just like that, the trap snapped shut.

The silence in Azure Hall was heavy, pressing down on us like water. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on my trembling twelve-year-old.

“It was an accident, Vanessa,” I said, stepping between my sister and my child. “She tripped.”

“That display cost three thousand dollars!” Vanessa shrieked, her voice rising to a pitch that shattered the room’s composure. “Do you think I curated this night just to have it ruined by your feral child?”

“She’s a child,” I snapped, my protective instinct flaring hot in my chest. “Stop it.”