As the clinking of glasses echoed through the room, I watched Caroline closely. The moment was surreal, time stretching as her painted lips touched the rim of the glass. Part of me hoped she’d spill the champagne, that her plan would be foiled by clumsy hands. But she sipped with practiced grace, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as the liquid passed her lips.
The toast proceeded, a symphony of well-wishes and laughter filling the air. Dylan looked over at me, his expression one of pure joy. I forced a smile, my mind racing. What had Caroline intended? What had she dropped into my champagne?
Caroline’s sip was small, but even a little was enough. As she settled the glass back onto the table, her triumphant smile faded, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Her eyes met mine and I held her gaze, unflinching, the weight of the moment resting between us.
The speeches continued, oblivious to the silent battle. Caroline, usually so composed, shifted in her seat, a hand fluttering to her throat as though tracing the path of the champagne. She reached for the glass again, almost reflexively, before catching herself. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking an escape, but there was none.
