But suddenly a memory surfaced.

A mug of tea beside my bed every night.

Prepared by Ethan.

Drink this.

It’ll help you sleep.

My stomach turned.

Before I could speak, the ballroom doors opened.

Aunt Evelyn stood there.

Beside her was Noah’s pediatric nurse, Mara.

She wasn’t carrying my son.

She was carrying a sealed hospital envelope.

Mara walked toward me.

Her face was pale.

“Mrs.

Cole.”

I stared at the envelope.

“What is it?”

“The hospital called after you came downstairs.

A confirmatory lab result came back from last night’s bloodwork.”

Ethan stopped breathing.

Mara held the envelope toward me.

“The attending physician asked that you receive this personally.”

Ethan whispered something.

Almost too quietly to hear.

“Clara can’t see that.”

I turned.

“What did you say?”

He said nothing.

I looked at the envelope.

Then at him.

“Why can’t I see this?”

“Clara—”

I took the envelope.

His hand shot out.

“Don’t.”

Three hundred people watched us.

I opened it.

The medical language meant nothing at first.

Numbers.

Abbreviations.

Test results.

Then one sentence appeared beneath a bold heading.

Unexpected sedative metabolite detected.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

My hands began shaking.

“What does this mean?”

Mara stepped closer.

“The doctors found evidence of a prescription sedating medication in Noah’s blood.”

My knees weakened.

Aunt Evelyn caught my elbow.

“No.”

“The level was low,” Mara said quickly.

“He’s stable.

The doctors don’t believe it’s responsible for the fever.

But a baby his age should not have had that substance in his system.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t give him anything.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

I looked at Ethan.

He was staring at the floor.

Mara continued.

“The pediatric team initially considered accidental transfer through breast milk.”

The room tilted.

I hadn’t taken any sedative.

Not knowingly.

My eyes rose slowly to Ethan.

The nighttime tea.

The missing hours.

The fog.

The strange mornings.

“You’ve been giving me something.”

His head snapped up.

“No.”

I heard my own voice crack.

“Have you been drugging me?”

“No!”

The force of his answer echoed from the glass dome.

Ben looked at me.

“There is one more recording.”

Everything inside me stopped.

I remembered his words earlier.

Not from the Ritz.

From your penthouse.

Ethan moved toward him.

“Don’t play it.”

I looked at Ben.

“Play it.”

“Clara—”

“Play it.”

The screen turned black.

Then grainy footage appeared.

Our kitchen.

Our penthouse.

Timestamp.

Nine days earlier.

2:14 A.M.

I stood in the ballroom watching myself on the screen.

Except I wasn’t awake.

I was walking slowly down the hallway wearing a robe.

Unsteady.

Confused.

The version of me in the recording opened a cabinet, stared inside, closed it, and leaned against the counter as though I had forgotten why I’d gone there.

Then Ethan appeared.

He guided me toward the bedroom.

For one second, it almost looked tender.

Then he returned alone.

He picked up my mug.

Rinsed it.

Reached into a locked drawer.

Removed a prescription bottle.

Every molecule in my body went cold.

Sabrina whispered, “Oh my God.”

The footage jumped forward.

Different night.

Same kitchen.

Another mug.

Another pill bottle.

Ethan crushing something out of camera view before stirring my drink.

No details.

No explanation required.

The next clip contained audio.

Ethan stood by the window with his phone.