“If that’s sparkling water, I’m the Queen of England.”

~Narrator's~

The after-party is an event of luxury—jazz playing under the breath of laughter, gold-rimmed glasses clinking under chandeliers, and floor-length gowns sweeping past polished floors. Executives lounge with cigars while junior investors take selfies in front of CussCorp’s branded step-and-repeat wall. The scent is heady—perfume, champagne, ambition.

Jennie is standing near a small cluster of faux-marble columns, cradling what she thinks is a peach-infused mocktail. She shifts her weight in heels that pinch slightly, one hand protectively resting over her bump, the other gripping the glass like it’s her only defense. She’s tense, despite her silk gown and the designer...