He paused. Not from hesitation, but because the room had gone silent in that familiar way it always did when he lifted a drink. It was tradition. A cue. When Ethan Blackwood prepared to speak, the world waited.

Behind him stood the Blackwood family, arranged like a portrait.

His wife, Margaret, positioned slightly at his side, wore a composed smile that never quite reached her eyes. Their son Julian lounged near the piano, confident to the point of restlessness. Their daughter Avery sat curled into a velvet chair, scrolling on her phone as if the mansion were just another backdrop. Friends and business associates filled the remaining space, murmuring softly over champagne.

Near the doorway, partially hidden by a gold-leafed column, stood Rosa—the housekeeper who had served the Blackwoods for nearly fifteen years.

Ethan surveyed the room with the practiced ease of a man used to command.

He raised the glass.

“To family,” he began, voice smooth and authoritative. “To loyalty. To those who—”

“MR. BLACKWOOD!”

The shout tore through the room.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t restrained.

“DON’T DRINK IT!”

Ethan froze.

For a moment, everything stalled—the light, the air, the breath in people’s lungs.