There are three cameras in front of me.
Two are owned by the White House.
The third isn't.
That one belongs to the enemy.
But I don't know that yet.
Not until I've already smiled. Already waved. Already lifted the champagne glass in front of two hundred politicians, donors, reporters, and devils dressed in designer.
Already sipped.
And swallowed.
It starts in my fingertips.
A numbing sensation.
Like champagne bubbles had teeth.
I blink once. Twice.
The lights don't get dimmer.
They sharpen.
The room begins to tilt. The marble floor beneath my heels might as well be ice. The warm flush in my chest turns to fire. My vision tunnels — but my hearing spikes.
Someone's laughing.
Someone's clapping.
Someone's dying.
Me.
"Pheobe."
Killian's voice.
It slices through the crowd like a blade.
I try to turn to him, but my body won't cooperate. My knees buckle.
The glass slips from my fingers.
It shatters.
That's when people finally notice.
