Then Katherine poured the wine over Monica’s head.
It ran through her hair.
Down her face.
Across her white uniform.
One woman gasped.
Another photographed it.
Nobody stopped Katherine.
That mattered.
Five women in a million-dollar room.
Not one said:
Enough.
Katherine looked delighted.
“Now you match the floor.”
More laughter.
Monica closed her eyes.
She had been detained at borders.
Threatened by criminal attorneys.
Harassed by politicians.
She had interviewed mothers whose children were murdered.
She had sat across from executives who smiled while lying about dead patients.
Katherine Prescott was not the most frightening person Monica had ever faced.
Not even close.
But Monica made herself a promise.
She would be the last.
Two days later, Katherine announced the gala plan.
Two hundred guests.
Her fiftieth birthday.
String quartet.
White orchids.
Five-tier cake.
Designer gown.
Diamonds.
And Monica at the front entrance.
“Wear your uniform.”
Katherine laughed.
