Voices lowered.
The carefully constructed illusion of effortless elegance fractured under the weight of something real and ugly.
“She thinks she’s above us!” my father shouted, his voice no longer restrained. “Living in that high-rise like she doesn’t owe anyone anything!”
Across the lawn, Lucas froze mid-conversation, a glass of champagne still in his hand. His wife, Elena, stood beside him, her posture rigid, her expression caught somewhere between shock and calculation. Neither of them moved.
No one did.
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