“Indeed,” Richard said, his eyebrows rising. “Well, your dedication is appreciated, Monica.”

“Please, go through to the living room,” I said, gesturing with my left hand. “The fire is lit, and we have some wonderful hors d’oeuvres waiting.”

I watched them move toward the grand living room, where the piano was playing soft jazz from the hidden speakers.

Our home looked beautiful, the warm lighting hiding the tension that vibrated through the walls.

Chef Laura stood near the kitchen doorway, wearing her crisp white chef’s coat.

She caught my eye and gave a single, firm nod.

The food was ready, and the trap was set.

More guests arrived in quick succession, until all twenty people were gathered in the living room.

I moved through the crowd, making sure to use my left hand to accept compliments and offer drinks, keeping my injured arm on display like a centerpiece.

Every time someone asked about it, I gave the exact same response Derek had rehearsed with me.

“A slip on the ice,” I would say, watching Derek’s eyes track me from across the room.