I wasn't about to swallow that kind of provocation. I stepped forward, ready to put her in her place, but Frederick blocked my path.
"Libby, calm down. She's just joking around."
"Agatha, why don't you pour your sister a glass of water?" He gestured toward a cup nearby.
Frederick shot Agatha a look. She played obedient, picked up the cup, and brought it over with an apology.
I didn't want to accept anything from her. But Agatha kept pressing, and in the end, I took it.
My throat was parched. I drank it all in one gulp. Instantly, a searing burn tore through my mouth and spread down my throat. I collapsed to the floor, curling into myself, screaming. "My stomach—it hurts!" The sound drew a crowd.
The cup shattered on the ground. Agatha stumbled back, wide-eyed, turning helplessly toward Frederick. But beneath the panic, a flicker of satisfaction crossed her face.
Her hands trembled. She didn't dare come closer. Frederick swallowed hard, frozen for a beat, then scooped me into his arms and rushed for the hospital.
But it was already too late. Hours of induced vomiting and stomach pumping couldn't undo what the concentrated alcohol had done. My baby was gone.