I stayed near the glass door. From the outside, it reflected like a mirror, letting me see clearly what was happening behind me at the bar.
Victoria glanced around.
Then I saw Daniel.
He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t on his phone. He shifted his body slightly, broadening his shoulders to block the view from others.
Victoria reached into her purse and pulled out a small white envelope.
She opened it quickly and poured a noticeable amount of powder into a glass of caipirinha. She stirred it with a straw, tossed the wrapper into the trash, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
Daniel met her eyes.
And nodded.
My husband had just helped his mother drug me at our daughter’s birthday party.
Everything clicked into place.
For weeks, Daniel had been threatening to fight for full custody of Lily. He said I was unstable, that I isolated myself with my “imaginary little business,” that I wasn’t mentally fit.
They didn’t need the truth.
They needed a scene.
A breakdown.
A public moment in front of wealthy, influential witnesses that would turn me into the unstable mother they wanted everyone to believe I was.
