Vanessa’s red-nailed hand staked onto Daniel’s chest. And the caption printed boldly across the bottom, exactly as she had sent it: Certain women are destined to be chosen.

Others are merely born to launder our sheets.

A sharp crash shattered the quiet.

Vanessa’s wine glass had slipped from her trembling fingers, exploding into a hundred glittering shards. Dark red bled into the Persian rug like a fresh wound.

Beatrice gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth. Chloe let out a strangled sob, staring back and forth between the canvas and her father.

Richard was frozen. The boisterous patriarch looked as though he’d suffered a stroke. His jaw hung slack, the perpetual redness draining from his face, leaving him frail and old and utterly broken.