Clarice clawed at her throat with one hand, the other gripping Tyler’s arm with a strength born of pure panic. Her skin, usually a flawless porcelain, was flushing a violent, patchy red. Welts were rising along her neckline, visible even from where I sat. Her lipstick was smudged across her cheek now, a grotesque streak of crimson. For a woman so meticulously composed, the unraveling was swift, jarring, and utterly complete.

I remained at the table, my untouched glass—the safe glass—in front of me. My hands were folded, resting on the white linen. I felt a strange detachment, like I was watching a play I had already read the script for.