The clink of fine china. The low hum of jazz. Laughter that floated like perfume; sweet, expensive, and never quite sincere.
I stood at the edge of the Sterling estate’s garden, near a perfectly manicured hedge dotted with white blooms. Around me, guests mingled like practiced dancers, weaving between high tables draped in crisp linens, their conversations light and polished. A woman in emerald silk threw her head back in a laugh that didn’t quite touch her eyes. Another dabbed at the corner of her lips with a napkin embroidered with the Sterling crest.
I held a glass of sparkling water that had long since gone flat.
The dress I wore shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun, a powder blue number that hugged the curve of my growing bump just enough to remind me it was there. It had arrived
