It wasn’t theatrical. It was a vicious overhand strike fueled by a lifetime of spoiled entitlement and unchecked rage.

I saw it coming. A decade of close-quarters training kicked in. I could have broken her wrist before the bottle cleared her shoulder. I could have swept her legs and put her on the marble in under a second.

But she was my sister. And it was her wedding.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, I hesitated. I pulled my block.

That hesitation cost me.

CRASH.