The mansion in Silverbrook Heights glittered under the late afternoon sun. The pool shimmered like a sheet of glass, surrounded by marble tiles and white lounge chairs arranged as if for a magazine shoot. Laughter rang through the garden, too loud, too sharp. Crystal glasses clinked. Music pulsed from hidden speakers among the hedges.
In the middle of that polished spectacle, Elena Morales stepped cautiously onto the veranda, her son Mateo clutching her hand as if the world might swallow him whole if he let go.
“Look at that,” a woman in a tight emerald dress sneered, loud enough for others to hear. “The help brought her kid.”
A man chuckled. “Guess she thought this was a public pool.”
The circle of guests subtly shifted, forming an invisible barrier. Mateo’s eyes were fixed on the water, on the children splashing freely, their laughter careless and bright. He took one hesitant step forward, his worn sneakers squeaking against the tile.
Elena forced a polite smile, though her throat burned. “I was told it was a family gathering,” she said softly.
Victoria Whitmore approached, perfume trailing behind her like a warning. Her smile was thin and perfectly rehearsed.