Sophia’s voice landed in the room like a dropped blade.
“Olivia Mitchell,” she said again, slower this time, one hand flat against the white linen, “you’re the founder of NexaVerse Health.”
No one moved.
The chandelier hummed softly overhead.
Candle wax melted into shallow gold pools.
Somewhere behind the service door, a tray rattled, then went still.
Jason looked from Sophia to me with the loose confusion of a man who had walked into the wrong operating room and hadn’t yet noticed the blood on the floor.
My father lowered his champagne glass but didn’t set it down.
My mother’s fingers stayed frozen around her dessert spoon, the silver catching the light.
Cousin Margaret blinked twice, like she was waiting for the punchline.
The children at my table had stopped whispering over their macarons and were staring openly now.
Jason laughed first.
Not because anything was funny.
Because people like Jason laughed when reality arrived wearing the wrong clothes.
“Sophia,” he said, “you’ve definitely got the wrong Olivia.”
She didn’t take her eyes off me.
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