Grant looked down at the phone screen, his earlier fury beginning to falter as he registered what the footage actually showed — a hand, unmistakably Isabelle's, pouring a small measure of vivid green liquid into a champagne flute during a moment when she'd believed herself unobserved near the reception's service bar.
The footage was brief, clinical, and utterly damning, capturing the deliberate, careful precision of someone who had clearly planned this moment in advance, believing herself safely unwatched amid the reception's general chaos.
Grant's breath caught sharply in his throat, the full weight of what he was witnessing beginning to settle over him with devastating clarity. He looked up from the phone screen toward Isabelle, whose face had drained of all color entirely, her earlier horrified expression now carrying something far more damning — genuine, unmistakable guilt.