The porcelain serving dish hit the marble floor so hard that the sound cracked through the Holloway mansion like a gunshot.
White fragments skittered beneath the kitchen island.
A piece of baked halibut landed near Seraphina Bellamy Holloway’s shoe.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then her mother-in-law sighed.
Not in surprise.
In disgust.
“Seven years,” Mavis Holloway said, smoothing one hand over the silver beading of her evening gown, “and after seven years in this family, you still cannot manage a proper dinner.”
Seraphina looked at the shattered dish.
The halibut had been perfectly cooked.
The lemon sauce had not separated.
The vegetables were still warm.
The table had been set exactly the way Mavis demanded—Waterford crystal, French linen, silver placed precisely one inch from every plate.
The dish had broken because Mavis had clipped the edge with her handbag while turning away.
Everyone in the kitchen had seen it.
