The laughter died first. Then the forks froze midair. And in the silence of a glittering Fifth Avenue penthouse, a voice cut through like glass.
A tall Black woman in an ivory gown, her calm composure the only thing holding back humiliation. “Excuse me?” the woman asked softly. Margaret’s lips curved into a cruel smile.
“You heard me. This isn’t a charity kitchen. You don’t belong here.”
The crowd chuckled — expensive laughter echoing against marble.
Champagne glasses tilted. Someone whispered, “Who let the help wander in?”
