The child looked impossibly small in a stiff designer dress. Her eyes darted around the room, wide with panic.
“Sit down, Lucy,” Charlotte snapped, her voice sharp and controlled.
“And stop fidgeting. The press is outside.”
Lucy didn’t sit.
She stood trembling beside the velvet chair.
Emily watched from the service station. She recognized that look immediately.
This wasn’t bad behavior.
It was sensory overload.
The clinking silverware.
The low hum of voices.
The jazz music bleeding into the walls.
“Sparkling water. Tasting menu,” Jonathan ordered curtly, never looking up from his phone.
The disaster struck seven minutes later.
A busboy dropped a tray of wine glasses.
The crash was deafening.
Lucy didn’t flinch.
She shattered.
A scream ripped from her chest—primal, horrifying. She collapsed to the floor, hands clamped over her ears, rocking violently.
The restaurant went silent.
“Lucy, stop it!” Charlotte hissed, grabbing the girl’s shoulder.
“Get up. You’re embarrassing Jonathan.”
The child screamed louder, kicking wildly. Her heel struck Charlotte’s shin.
“You little monster!” Charlotte gasped, her flawless mask cracking.
She yanked Lucy’s arm, trying to haul her upright.
“I said get up!”