“Claire will serve.”

He walked out of the room, leaving the heavy oak doors swinging behind him.

Vanessa watched him go, her fists clenched on the table.

Then, she turned her eyes slowly toward me.

The hatred in her gaze was cold and absolute.

“You think you are safe here, don’t you?” she whispered.

I did not answer.

“We will see about that next week,” she said.

She stood up, knocking her chair back slightly.

She walked out, her long white coat trailing behind her like a shroud.

I stood alone in the quiet dining room, the gold-rimmed plates staring up at me.

I knew then that the dinner party would be a disaster.

I just didn’t know how far she would go to destroy me.

The next few days passed in a blur of heavy prep work.

The mansion smelled of roasted meats, expensive wine, and floor wax.

Margaret worked us to the bone, her eyes constantly scanning the hallways.

“Stay alert, Claire,” Margaret whispered to me in the pantry.

“The storm is coming.”

On the night of the dinner, the snow fell heavily outside, piling against the glass.