The Turning Point
At a charity dinner, a guest brushed past and Emily’s tray of wineglasses wobbled. In the past, Victoria would have lashed her in front of everyone. This time, Victoria’s hand shot out, steadied the tray. Their eyes met. No words—just a flicker. A truce, not yet spoken.
The mansion soon buzzed with preparations for Andrew’s sixtieth—an extravagant gala to draw senators, CEOs, and celebrities. Victoria demanded perfection; Emily became the quiet fulcrum. She liaised with florists, checked seating charts, coordinated caterers. Her role evolved from invisible labor to invisible backbone. Victoria began to rely on her—asking for a second set of eyes before Andrew could find a flaw.
On the night of the gala, Emily stood discreetly by the ballroom entrance in a spotless uniform. Laughter tinkled; crystal chimed. Andrew basked; Victoria glittered in emerald silk, composed save for the nervous tap of her ring against the stem of her glass.
Chaos struck. A rival developer Andrew had frozen out barged in with a file and a raised voice, accusing him of corruption in front of cameras. The room went still.
Emily moved first. She redirected a passing waiter, then “accidentally” collided with the intruder, sending a wave of red wine down his designer jacket. The uproar broke the moment; security whisked him away as the crowd exhaled in uneasy laughter.
Across the ballroom, Victoria’s gaze found Emily’s. No chill this time—only quiet, unmistakable gratitude.
After the guests were gone, Victoria stepped into the kitchen. Instead of scolding, she poured two glasses of wine and set one in front of Emily.
