The room was frozen in shock, the air thick with tension and disbelief. Emily’s eyes were wide with horror as she took in Barnaby’s convulsing form on the stone patio, while Beatrice remained disturbingly composed, her insistence chilling in its intensity.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm even as my pulse raced. “Emily, don’t,” I said firmly, stepping between her and Beatrice. “There’s something wrong with that milk.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed, and the veneer of politeness she maintained seemed to thin dangerously. “Please, don’t interfere with family matters,” she said, her voice dripping with a false sweetness that made my skin crawl.
