Novelas y relatos de Champagne Problems

Hmmm, I don't think he's trying to poison me, but it doesn't hurt to ask, even though I wouldn't have the means to buy it, it's necessary to know. "Champagne, don't worry, I would never give you poison," he says humorously, "it's noticeable how much your hands are shaking, this will help you relax." It can't be, I thought I was being discreet, but no, I'm a complete idiot. I nodded and took a sip, leaving half in the glass. Yes, this can relax me, but I could also get drunk, and it's not a good idea to attend a wedding drunk. Alright, it's time to switch to water. No! But this is delicious, hmm... I'm savoring how good it tastes in my mouth.

John was still shrewd, and upon seeing Frost's reaction, he knew that the ploy of enrolling Bianca in yoga classes must have had an effect. Ethan came over, cheerfully greeting, "Grandpa, let's have a drink! Oh, Frost is here too, let's drink together!" Mr. John waved his hand and Frost said, "Grandpa is taking traditional Chinese medicine and can't drink alcohol." "Champagne doesn't count as alcohol? It's just a beverage! It's fine!" Ethan insisted on pouring the wine. "Champagne can't be drunk either!"

I reached out and gently picked up the crystal champagne flute Chloe had poured, lifting it toward the soft light of the chandelier. Chloe’s smile finally wavered, a sudden tightness gripping her jaw. "What... what are you doing? It's just celebratory champagne. Put it down." "Is it?" I tilted the glass just an inch, watching the golden bubbles swirl slowly against the crystal rim. "Because our in-house medical security scanner analyzed the chemical composition of this batch ten minutes ago. It contains a concentrated dose of synthetic disinhibitors blended with a hormonal agent designed to mimic early pregnancy markers in routine blood work."

I said. Imran walked towards the table slowly, his eyes moving across the room first. He always did that now. Observed before speaking. Measured people carefully. Again, dangerous. He stopped beside me, glancing down at the papers scattered across the table. “What happened?” “Three shipments interrupted,” Dante explained. “Different locations.” Imran frowned slightly. “And you think it's connected?” “It is connected,” Marco said sharply. “We're trying to figure out who the fuck is responsible.”

I eyed the champagne flute warily as the boutique attendant placed it gently in my hand like it was holy. Dom Pérignon, a vintage, no less. Liquid money in a crystal glass. Tempting. But I was a lightweight. Embarrassingly so. One sip too many and I’d either start crying about betrayal or serenading the entire boutique with Taylor Swift ballads. Both were solid options for a breakdown, but neither was ideal when I was supposed to be playing the perfectly happy Mrs. Ashford.

"Jason insisted on only the finest vintage tonight." The liquid glowed gold under the chandeliers, bubbles rising like captured fireflies. My instincts screamed don't drink it. But refusing in front of dozens of watching eyes would look strange. Suspicious. Dangerous. "To new partnerships," Brittany said, her smile all predator and no warmth. I touched my glass to hers, let the crystal ring sing sharp in the air, and drank. The champagne was perfect. Crisp. Expensive. And wrong. Something bitter lingered on my tongue. Something metallic. Something that made Brittany's eyes gleam with satisfaction.

I said, though the words felt slightly slurred. "Of course she is." Katy's smile seemed a little forced now. "You two are perfect together." I drained my glass, feeling warm and relaxed for the first time in weeks. "This champagne is really good. What did you say it was?" "Dom Pérignon. Nothing but the best for a celebration like this." Everything after that became hazy. I remember laughing at something Katy said, remember her standing very close to me as we looked over the Nexus contracts. I remember feeling dizzy, more drunk than I should have been from just two glasses of champagne.

"You looked at me first." "You're jealous of a glass?" "I'm concerned about your priorities." "My priorities are excellent." I lifted the glass. "Champagne first. Emotional stability later." He actually smiled. A real one this time. Small. Brief. But real. And my stomach did something deeply embarrassing. I ignored it. I had become very good at ignoring things. Mostly. Within twenty minutes, I'd already spoken to six people whose names I couldn't remember, complimented three dresses, survived a conversation about international art investments and somehow found myself standing beside a woman who had apparently spent thirty minutes explaining the tax implications of owning a vineyard in Italy.