A young boy, about three years old, was sitting on his father’s lap, chewing on a large green grape from a fruit platter.

I watched the boy absentmindedly, my nursing instincts always running in the background.

“Victoria, look at me,” Mark demanded, grabbing my wrist. “We are going to settle this tonight. I’m not letting you ruin my credit because you’re bitter about the past.”

“Let go of me, Mark,” I said, trying to pull away.

“Let her go,” James said, though he didn’t make a move to help. “You’re making a scene, buddy.”

“Mind your own business,” Mark sneered, his grip tightening on my wrist.

I opened my mouth to call for security, but a sudden, strange sound from the nearby table cut through the tension.

It was a soft, wet gasp.

I looked past Mark’s shoulder.

The little boy in the red sweater had stopped laughing.

His eyes were wide with terror, and his hands flew to his throat.

I ripped my wrist out of Mark’s grip with a strength I did not know I had.

He stumbled backward, blinking in surprise.