My future mother-in-law ripped the insulin pump from my waist at my sister’s wedding, threw it into a bin of lobster shells, and laughed, "There. Now you’re cured of your need for attention."

Minutes later, I collapsed beside the buffet after she forced a glass of bitter red wine down my throat.

She called it a fake coma.

Then a man dressed as a caterer vaulted over the counter, caught me before my head struck the marble floor, and smelled the wine on my lips.

His face went white.

But not from fear.

From recognition.

The ballroom at Bellefleur Manor had been designed to make ordinary people feel small. Crystal chandeliers. White orchids. Gold-rimmed glasses. Three hundred guests selected for their surnames, bank accounts, and usefulness to the Blackwood family.

My sister Chloe stood beneath an arch of imported lilies in a twenty-thousand-dollar gown, marrying Julian Blackwood.

I was engaged to Julian’s younger brother, Grant, which made their mother, Evelyn Thorne-Blackwood, my future mother-in-law too.

At least, that was what everyone believed.

Evelyn had spent the entire afternoon trying to hide my medical equipment from the photographer.

"Turn sideways," she ordered as the bridal party gathered near the staircase. "That ugly black box is showing again."

The black box was my insulin pump.

My lifeline.

My continuous glucose monitor had already vibrated twice against my arm. I had taken insulin for a meal the wedding planner promised would arrive at noon. By three thirty, I had been given half a strawberry and told the bridal party could eat after the portraits.

My glucose was 65 and dropping.

"I need juice," I told Chloe quietly.

She glanced toward the photographer instead of at me. "Can you wait ten minutes? Evelyn already thinks you’re making today about yourself."

That hurt more than the shaking in my hands.

Evelyn heard us.

She crossed the ballroom with a champagne flute in one hand and fury hidden beneath a flawless smile.

"Your sugar problems are a pathetic cry for attention," she said loudly enough for the bridesmaids to hear. "Every family event becomes an Elena emergency."

A few guests looked away.

No one stepped forward.

Grant stood near the bar, adjusting his cuff links. When our eyes met, he gave me the smallest warning shake of his head.

Don’t argue with her.

Protect the family image.

Again.

My monitor vibrated harder.

LOW: 58.

"Evelyn, I’m not asking permission," I said. "I need to treat this now."

Her smile vanished.

She grabbed the tubing at my waist.

"Then stop displaying it like jewelry."

Before I could move, she yanked.

Pain burned across my hip as the infusion set tore free. A thin streak of blood appeared against my pale dress.

Someone gasped.

Evelyn held the pump above her head like a prize.

Then she dropped it into a trash bin filled with wet napkins, broken shells, and sauce.

"There," she said. "Now you’re cured of your drama."

A bridesmaid laughed nervously.

Chloe whispered, "Mom, not here," but she did not come to me.

Not Mom, don’t do this.

Not Elena, are you hurt?

Only not here.

Because the cruelty was acceptable. The audience was the problem.

My knees began to weaken. I reached for the buffet, but Evelyn moved between me and the juice station.

"You need sugar? Fine."

She took a crystal glass of dark red wine from a waiter’s tray.

I saw her other hand dip briefly into her jeweled clutch.

When it came out, her fingers were curled around something small and amber-colored.

Then the glass blocked my view.

She seized my chin.

"Drink, darling. Smile for the guests."

"No."

"Stop embarrassing Chloe."

The rim struck my teeth. Wine spilled into my mouth.

It was sweet at first.

Then came a medicinal bitterness that did not belong there.

I tried to spit it out, but my muscles were no longer obeying me. The chandeliers stretched into streaks of light. Voices softened, then bent strangely, as though the entire ballroom had slipped underwater.

I heard Evelyn laugh.

"Look at her. She’s doing the coma thing now."

My shoulder hit the buffet table. Plates crashed around me.

Evelyn stepped back to protect her dress.

"Someone move her before the photographer sees this."

That was when the caterer ran.

He vaulted over the marble counter, knocked a silver tray aside, and caught me beneath the arms. His fingers found my pulse. His eyes moved from the torn infusion site to my monitor and then to the half-empty wineglass still trapped in Evelyn’s hand.

"Call emergency services," he ordered.

Evelyn scoffed. "She does this constantly."

He ignored her and pressed glucose gel against my gums while another server brought the venue’s medical kit.

Then he leaned close to the glass.

He smelled it once.

His entire expression changed.

The friendly caterer disappeared.

In his place was someone cold, trained, and suddenly terrifying.

He carefully took the glass by the stem and held it beneath the chandelier. A cloudy residue clung to the bottom.

Evelyn’s jeweled clutch slipped from beneath her arm.

A tiny amber vial rolled across the marble floor.

The caterer looked at it.