Instead, I calmly sipped sparkling water while my eight-year-old daughter Lily slipped her small hand into mine.

She wore a pale pink flower-girl dress and looked anxious.

“Aunt Vanessa yelled at me again,” she whispered.

I crouched immediately. “Why?”

“She said I walk funny,” Lily murmured. “And she said I better not mess anything up.”

My jaw tightened instantly.

Vanessa had always been cruelest toward people smaller than her.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I told Lily quietly. “Do you understand me? Nothing.”

She nodded, though her eyes still looked wet.

“Can I go play near the terrace?”

“Stay where I can see you.”

She ran toward the reception area while I watched carefully.

Something felt wrong all evening.

Like the island itself was waiting for something terrible.

The reception started shortly after sunset on the upper cliff terrace overlooking the ocean. Chandeliers glittered above the dance floor while waves crashed against the volcanic rocks below.

Decorative lower gardens had been built roughly two meters beneath the terrace edge—beautiful from a distance, deadly if someone fell.

Vanessa was drunk before dinner finished.