The champagne glass slipped from my daughter-in-law’s hand the moment she hit the floor.
Jessica’s mother, Helen, was on my marble kitchen tiles, her body seized with violent tremors, froth gathering at the corners of her mouth.
And all I could think was, Well… that wasn’t supposed to happen to her.
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Before I tell you how I got to this point, let me be clear about something: I’ve spent seventy years on this earth, and I didn’t survive a ruthless business world by being stupid.
When someone tries to lace your drink at your own retirement party, you notice—especially when that someone has been eyeing your bank account the way a starving woman stares at a feast.
Two hours earlier, my kitchen had been full of laughter and celebration. I’d just sold my consulting firm for $23 million.
Not bad for a company I built from nothing after my husband died fifteen years ago.
Michael—my son—had insisted on throwing the party.
“Mom, you deserve to celebrate,” he’d said, those sincere brown eyes of his working overtime.
“Let Jessica handle everything. You just relax and enjoy.”
I should have known something was wrong when Jessica volunteered to play hostess.
The woman who usually complained about loading the dishwasher was suddenly Martha Stewart incarnate—arranging flowers and polishing crystal like her life depended on it.
Which, as it turned out, it probably did.
The party was lovely. I’ll give her that.
About thirty people from my professional life, a few neighbors and family.
Jessica had even hired a bartender.
“Nothing’s too good for you, Sarah,” she’d gushed, squeezing my arm with those perfectly manicured nails that cost more than most people’s weekly groceries.
I was making small talk with my former business partner when I saw it.
Jessica, standing near the champagne table, glancing around nervously before pulling a small vial from her purse.
My blood turned to ice as I watched her empty the contents into a specific glass—the one with the tiny chip on the rim that I always used at parties.
Now, a sensible person might have screamed, might have called the police, might have confronted her right there.
But I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to catch a snake is to let it think it’s cornered a mouse.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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