The Sister-in-law

The chandelier's light resembled crushed stars, each fragment scattered upon the banquet hall's floor. Each sliced facet gleamed with a piercing light, stabbing pain into my pupils. Warm air flowed from the ornate vents, infused with the sweetness of champagne, the sharpness of cologne, and the toasted fragrance of baked bread, twisting into a sticky heat within the air. I stood in the innermost corner, fingertips clasping the stem of the champagne glass. The coolness of the glass seeped into my skin, yet it could not quell the fevered restlessness in my chest. My gaze swept across the throng — a lady in a sapphire blue gown delicately prodding a strawberry tart with a silver fork; a man wearing gold-rimmed glasses raised his glass with a gentle chime; and a cluster of youths gathered by the bar, their laughter shattered like shards of broken glass — all falling beside the negotiation table opposite me. Mr. Clark held the pen, its tip moving slowly across the final cooperation document. The black ink bled onto the cream-colored paper, the rustling sound seeming to pierce through the hall's clamor, striking my eardrums with every stroke. I knew this was the Collins Group's largest overseas deal this year, one I had secured only after seven sleepless nights, three transoceanic flights, and drinking until my stomach bled. "Ms. Shaw is indeed a master of her craft." Mr. Clark set down the pen and slid the document toward me; his fingertips brushed the paper's surface. The scent of tobacco mingled with the Cologne on him, like a sun-warmed old book exuding a subtle, complex mustiness. I reached out to grasp it; just as the pad of my finger was about to touch the edge of the document, a sudden shove struck my back. The force was as if struck by a baseball bat, a dull ache crawling up my spine. I staggered forward, my forehead smashing against the sharp corner of the Champagne Tower. With a muted 'thud,' the dull pain of bone colliding with glass radiated down from the crown of my head, a burst of golden stars exploding before my eyes. Warm liquid trickled down along my brow bone, dripping onto my cream-colored evening gown. That was a birthday gift my elder sister Sunny Scott gave me before she passed away. Last year on my birthday, she smiled and said, "Nola looks best in beige, like freshly sun-dried cotton." But now, dark red blood spreads across the fabric like a flower trampled to ruin, shimmering with a harsh light beneath the chandelier. "On what grounds do you dare steal the credit?" A sharp female voice exploded beside my ear, as if someone poured shards of glass deep into my auditory canal. Without turning around, I knew it was Mia Collins — the youngest daughter of the Collins Family, that nominal little sister-in-law who has always treated me like a thorn in her side. This is not the first time. Last month, I secured Collins Group's landmark project within the city. At the celebratory banquet, Mia Collins splashed red wine on my dress, accusing me of "using unscrupulous methods."Earlier, the project proposal I had painstakingly drafted through sleepless nights was covertly altered by Mia Collins, who then submitted it under her own name. Cameron Collins merely remarked coldly, "Mia is still young; you must indulge her." "Mia!" Cameron Collins' voice came from behind, heavy with anger. Clutching my bleeding forehead, I lifted my gaze and met his eyes. That gaze was as cold as the frozen surface of a midwinter lake, beneath which lay an unyielding impatience. It seemed as if my current humiliation was meant deliberately to cast a shadow over the Collins Family's fortunes. "It's just a minor injury; why quarrel with Mia over it?" He frowned, his gaze sweeping over the wound on my forehead as swiftly as wind brushes over water—without leaving even a ripple. I wiped the blood from the corner of my eye; my fingertip sticky as if coated in syrup, my voice trembling: "She pushed me." Those three words stumbled from my lips as if they had drained all the strength from my body. "My younger sister is inexperienced and naive; as her sister-in-law, shouldn't you show some leniency?" Cameron Collins reached out and seized my wrist, his knuckles digging into my flesh, the pain forcing a sharp intake of breath. The bones in my wrist felt as if they might shatter, yet I refused to yield: "I am not her sister-in-law." I jerked my hand free suddenly, the metallic scent of blood rising to my throat—bitter and acrid, much like the past three years. The surrounding guests fell silent, gathering in small clusters to whisper among themselves. Some covered their mouths with folding fans, though their eyes flicked toward me; others held up their phones, the screen's glow flickering across their faces; There was also a lady in a purple cheongsam, who said to those beside her, "The Collins Family's connections are truly a spectacle to behold." Those gazes were like countless fine needles, pricking my back until it went numb. Mia Collins hid behind Cameron Collins, poking out half her face to make a mocking grimace at me. The triumph at the corner of her mouth glistened under the light like an unwrapped candy wrapper. Her nails were painted purple, and when she pushed me just now, I thought I caught a glimpse of cake cream on her sleeve cuff—likely from dashing straight out of the dessert section. The sharp sting on my forehead intensified. I gazed upon this pair, bonded by a 'brotherly and sisterly' affection, and suddenly found it all laughable. The chandelier's light dazzled my eyes; the glass of the Champagne Tower reflected a cold gleam beneath its glow. Around me, the scent of fine garments and elegant shadows resembled a crumpled painting. I turned away and, step by deliberate step, exited the banquet hall.