Chapter 1
The dining room of the Bennett estate was bathed in bright, natural light, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows to create a crisp, cinematic brilliance. There was no warm, yellow tint to soften the edges of the room; the atmosphere was as sharp and pristine as the crystal wine glasses lining the table. Around the polished mahogany sat a collection of distinguished guests, all fair-skinned, rosy-cheeked Americans dressed in impeccable family-dinner attire.
At twenty-nine, Vesper was effortlessly beautiful, possessing a striking, classic elegance that commanded the room without a single word. Her fair skin glowed perfectly against her tailored emerald dress. Across from her sat her mother-in-law, Martha. At sixty-three, Martha’s rosy face was pulled tight into an expression of perpetual, aristocratic displeasure, her heavy pearl necklace resting against her rigid collarbone.
Between them sat four-year-old Nash. The little boy swung his legs beneath his chair, his bright blue eyes focused entirely on the roasted chicken and vegetables on his porcelain plate.
"Are you going to eat your carrots, Nash?" one of the guests, a woman in a pastel blouse, asked with a polite, ringing American accent.
"I'm eating the chicken first, ma'am," Nash replied sweetly, picking up his small silver fork.
"Don't speak with your mouth full, boy," Martha snapped, her gaze snapping toward her grandson. "It is entirely uncultured. But I suppose we cannot expect much given your mother's background."
Vesper’s jaw tightened, but she kept her voice perfectly level. "Nash is doing just fine, Martha. Leave him be."
"I will not be instructed on manners in my own son's home," Martha hissed, her rosy skin flushing a deep, angry crimson. She leaned over the table, her eyes locking onto the four-year-old boy.
Without a fraction of a second's warning, Martha’s hands shot forward. She grabbed the edges of Nash’s heavy porcelain dinner plate and violently dumped the entire contents directly into his lap.
Hot gravy, roasted vegetables, and grease splashed violently across Nash’s clean clothes. The heavy plate crashed onto the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces. Nash gasped, jerking backward so suddenly in sheer, absolute terror that his heavy wooden chair tipped backward. The child fell hard, his head narrowly missing the edge of the table as he crashed onto the floor beside the scattered food.
The entire dining room froze. Guests gasped, their wine glasses suspended in mid-air.
May you like
Martha slowly sat back in her chair, smoothing the fabric of her expensive top. She looked down at the weeping child on the floor, smiling with poisonous, unfiltered contempt.
"You eat when your mother learns obedience," Martha said, her voice echoing in the dead silence of the brightly lit room.
