The clinking of crystal glasses, raised to congratulate the new communications director, had barely died away when a harsh hiss rose from my throat, like a broken kettle. My name is Sailor Cole. I’m a restorer of rare books, far more accustomed to paper dust and silence than to lavish receptions like this one.
I clearly had no business being in that room filled with designer suits and calculated smiles. My sister, Sloane, was standing on the small platform at the back of the VIP lounge. Her perfectly white teeth sparkled in the amber light.
She leaned towards the microphone with that seasoned PR smile that never quite reached her eyes. « Shall we start again… Sailor? Don’t make a scene. It’s just mushroom soup. There’s no crab. Unless you want to ruin my promotion night? » An awkward laugh rippled through the room.
Sloane thought she’d scored points, as always, by playing to the audience. She was enjoying the attention, the approval. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the man sitting right across from her wasn’t laughing at all.
Magnus Thorne, the group’s chairman and the one who directly approved his promotion, stared at my bowl of soup with an expression of pure horror. His daughter also suffers from a life-threatening shellfish allergy. He knew exactly what anaphylactic shock felt like.
Before I even understood what was happening, he was already moving. He pulled an auto-injector pen from the inside pocket of his expensive suit and rushed towards me with astonishing speed for a 58-year-old man.
But let’s go back.
This dinner was supposed to be an intimate reception to celebrate Sloane’s promotion, in the private dining room of Étoile, a three-Michelin-starred restaurant where a three-month waiting list and an unlimited credit card are required for reservations. The gilded lighting gave every detail the air of a luxury magazine: crystal chandeliers, dark wood paneling, an atmosphere saturated with antique silver and newfound ambition.
I am 26 years old. Despite my young age, I have already made a name for myself in the very closed world of rare book conservation. Some academics call me « the surgeon of history » because of my cold, methodical approach and my mastery of chemical preservation processes. I restore centuries-old manuscripts with a precision comparable to that of a bomb disposal expert.
My sister Sloane is 29. She had just been appointed head of communications at Thorne Global, one of the country’s largest multinational corporations. Where I am discreet and cautious, she is brilliant and reckless. Where I preserve, she destroys.
Our parents, Alistair and Cordelia Cole, both 60 years old, sat at the table, beaming with pride. They only have eyes for Sloane’s brilliant career. My work, in their eyes, is dusty, dreary, and lacking prestige. I’m the disappointing daughter, the one who chose books over boardrooms.
The tension that led to my poisoning—yes, let’s call a spade a spade—had begun long before dinner. Earlier that evening, Sloane had tried to intercept Magnus Thorne in the restaurant lobby to show him a press kit. She wanted his attention. His admiration.
He walked right past her without a glance and stopped near the changing room… to talk to me. For twenty minutes, we discussed the process of deacidifying old paper, pH balance, and European and Asian fibers. He was fascinated. He even offered me the opportunity to work on a private collection of 18th- century letters .
I saw Sloane’s jaw tighten. I saw her anger rising. This was supposed to be her moment. Her night. And I was stealing the attention of the most important person in the room.
She decided to humiliate me.
She was convinced I was faking my allergy to get attention. That a little crab would only make me itch or give me a few rashes. She wanted to ridicule me. So she set a trap.
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