Nina tried to rationalize what she had heard. Greg had appeared in her life under circumstances that had seemed almost providential after the tragic accident on the highway that had claimed her first husband. The reports had been harrowing: brakes failing, twisted metal, screaming—death appearing suddenly and without warning. It was Greg who had been there, calm and capable, a steady presence amid chaos. He had driven her father to doctors’ appointments when heart problems flared, had meticulously helped with funeral arrangements, had become a fixture in their lives when despair seemed to have no end. Her father had seen in him not just a supportive friend but a reliable, solid man—a future partner for Nina, a person who could safeguard their family’s business and legacy. And now, with Michael’s warning echoing in her mind, that carefully constructed image shattered. The man she had trusted, the one everyone around her trusted, was potentially a threat. Her thoughts raced, darting between disbelief and dread, fear threading through every memory of Greg’s kindness. Could it be that all the appearances of calm and competence were a mask? Or was it possible that she had simply misinterpreted something? The weight of indecision pressed down on her as she approached the table, where two glasses, tied with ribbons, sat in front of them like silent, dangerous witnesses to the unfolding drama.
Greg, seated at the head of the table, exuded a confident authority that now felt menacing. His gaze swept across the room, briefly settling on her before returning to the crowd, yet the cold precision of his eyes lingered in her mind like a shadow. When he leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee beneath the table, the touch was firm, invasive, and entirely without the warmth it had once carried. “Where have you been?” he asked quietly, his voice low but sharp, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. “Tamada is waiting. About to make the chief toast.” Nina’s fingers trembled as she replied, “I had to fix my dress,” forcing the words through a tight throat, striving for composure she did not feel. Greg’s lips curved into a polite, almost rehearsed smile, but his eyes remained calculating, unyielding. The music swelled again, a swelling tide of strings and laughter that made her head spin. Guests raised their glasses, oblivious to the small, silent war being waged at the head table. Nina’s pulse raced. With painstaking care, she executed the switch. The glass meant for her remained untouched, now replaced by an empty vessel, while Greg’s glass sat precariously in the spot she had just vacated. The ritual of substitution was simple in execution but monumental in consequence: one misstep and disaster could strike. Yet her hands, though shaking, were steady enough to ensure the swap went unnoticed.
Every second seemed drawn out, each heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears. Nina tried to mask her fear behind a calm, measured expression, adjusting her posture and glancing around as if nothing were wrong. The room, oblivious to the tension, continued in celebration: laughter, applause, and music creating a dissonant backdrop to her internal panic. She studied Greg subtly, observing the way he moved, the way he gestured, the slight twitch of his hand that had always seemed natural but now appeared fraught with hidden menace. Memories of the man who had arrived after her loss, so reliable and calm, now felt like a cruel trick played by fate. The dichotomy of past trust and present fear gnawed at her, a constant internal battle that she fought silently as she prepared for the toast. The Tamada raised his glass, the microphone crackling slightly as he began a speech filled with jovial anecdotes and well-wishes. Guests mirrored his actions, lifting their glasses high, unaware of the potentially fatal drama that teetered on the edge of the head table. Nina’s breathing slowed, each inhale measured, as she awaited the moment when she could safely ensure the powder did not enter her system, every muscle taut with anticipation.
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