Twelve guests sat around the long mahogany table, their diamonds catching the light.

At the head sat Julian Mercer, his dark suit immaculate, his face expressionless.

To his right was Vanessa, wearing a blood-red silk dress that contrasted sharply with the snowy night outside.

Next to her sat an older man with silver hair and a heavy, red-veined nose.

Senator Richard Whitmore.

He was laughing loudly, his hand resting on a heavy crystal glass of scotch.

“The Great Lakes routes are congested this winter, Julian,” the Senator was saying, his voice booming. “But a phone call from the right office can clear the ice very quickly.”

Julian did not smile. “I prefer to rely on my own icebreakers, Richard.”

I approached the table with the tray, my boots silent on the thick Persian rug.

Margaret followed behind me with the silver ladle and the porcelain bowls.

I began to serve the guest to Julian’s left, keeping my eyes lowered.

My hands were steady, but my chest felt incredibly tight.

“Ah, the help,” Vanessa said, her voice cutting through the dinner chatter.