She looks up, catches me staring, and returns my smile—that private smile that’s reserved just for me, the one that makes the corners of her eyes crease slightly. Of course she looks beautiful. She’s breathtaking.
Something inside me snaps, and all the tension from last night, all the pretense, all the years of half-truths and strategic omissions—they collapse at once.
“What do you want me to say, Mom?” My voice comes out louder than intended, cutting through the cheerful chatter. “I don’t get it. Yes, Ruby looks beautiful.” The room falls silent as every head turns toward me, conversations dying mid-sentence. Demetria’s eyes widen, her hand frozen with a champagne flute halfway to her lips. “To me, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, but that’s not what you want to hear, is it?”
My mother’s face goes slack with shock, and her eyes widen as she takes a half-step backward, bumping into a makeup table and sending a collection of brushes scattering.
Even the hired photographers have stopped clicking, their cameras lowering slowly as they register the unfolding drama.
I take a deep breath, feeling light-headed with a strange mix of terror and relief. The secret I’ve guarded for so long is out there now, impossible to take back. I lower my voice with effort, trying to regain some control, but the words keep spilling out.
“So you can save yourself the effort of seating me next to your friend’s single son at dinner,” I continue, meeting my mother’s stunned gaze. “I’m only interested in Ruby.” The words feel both foreign and completely natural on mytongue. “And you know it, don’t you? You just pretend you don’t. Just like you pretend your adult daughter is still a virgin.”
I gesture toward Demetria, who’s instinctively placed a hand over her slightly rounded abdomen, her eyes darting between me and our mother like she’s watching a tennis match where the ball might explode at any moment.
“And in a few days, we’ll all celebrate that she got pregnant on her wedding night,” I continue, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “Why all the pretending, Mom? What decade are we living in?”
My mother’s face has drained of color. She opens her mouth, but no sound emerges, perhaps for the first time in her life rendered completely speechless. Her hands flutter uselessly at her sides before she clasps them together tightly, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. Behind her, Demetria stares at me. Her stylist has frozen with a section of hair held aloft.
“I’m not saying anything that people here don’t already know,” I continue. “Literally everyone in this room knows Demetria is pregnant, and we’re all pretending otherwise. The way we’re all pretending I’m not gay.” I look around at the silent audience, meeting several pairs of averted eyes. “It doesn’t make sense, Mom. It’s got to stop.”
No one seems to know what to do. The makeup artists exchange glances, silently communicating about whether they should continue working or flee the scene. Demetria’s bridesmaids studiously examine their manicures, their shoes, the ceiling—looking anywhere but at the family drama unfolding before them. Only Aunt Ana seems completely unfazed, taking a long sip of her champagne like she’s watching a particularly entertaining episode of her favorite soap opera.
My mother’s eyes fill with tears. Not the dramatic kind she’s prone to when she wants to make a point—those strategic tears she deploys to win arguments or extract promises—but genuine, shocked tears that make her makeup begin to run in dark rivulets down her cheeks. She looks smaller suddenly, more fragile than I can ever remember seeing her. The formidable matriarch who has ruled our family with absolute authority since my father’s death seems to diminish before my eyes, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the truths she can no longer deny.
“How dare you,” she whispers, but there’s no heat in it. Just hurt and perhaps the realization that her constructed version of reality has just crumbled beyond repair. “Today of all days.”
“I’m sorry for the timing,” I say, and I mean it. Some part of me knows I should have found a more private moment for this confrontation, that dropping this bomb in a room full of witnesses on Demetria’s wedding day is not my finest moment. “But I’m not sorry for the truth.”
Ruby gets up and crosses the room to stand beside me. Her hand finds mine without hesitation.
“Mrs. Stavros,” she begins. “I love your daughter. That’s the simple truth of it.”
The words hit me with unexpected force. We’ve said them to each other in private, whispered them in the dark, but hearing her declare it so openly, in front of my family and strangers alike… It’s intense.
Ruby takes a deep breath, her expression softening. “When my wife died, my mother said something to me I’ll never forget. She told me she was worried about me—that she always thought Claire would be the one to make sure I was okay, and Claire wasn’t there anymore.” Her voicetrembles slightly, but she steadies it. “My mother worried because that’s what mothers do, isn’t it? They want to know their children are okay when they’re not nearby to check on them.”
My mother stares at Ruby, caught off guard by this unexpected turn in the conversation.
“I can promise you, Mrs. Stavros,” Ruby continues, squeezing my hand, “that I will take care of Athena. I will be by her side through good times and bad. I will take that worry off your shoulders.” She pauses, her gaze unwavering. “Isn’t that what every mother wants? To know their child is loved and cared for?”
My mother’s gaze drops to our joined hands, lingering on our interlaced fingers, then rises to meet Ruby’s eyes again. Something passes between them—a silent communication I can’t quite decipher. Then, to my astonishment, she nods once, slowly, a gesture of acknowledgment if not quite acceptance.
I wait for her to say something. I think she’s trying, but no words come out.
Demetria rises from her chair, her expression carrying the particular exasperation that only siblings can inspire—the look that saysI could kill you right now, but I also understand why you did it.
“All right, everyone,” she says to the room at large, clapping her hands together in a gesture so reminiscent of our mother that it would be funny under different circumstances. “The show is over. I’m getting married in four hours, and I’d like my hair to be symmetrical. So let’s all get on with it, shall we? I’m not pregnant and my sister is not gay.” She grins at her audience, then points to me. “And my sister needs some waterproof mascara. Don’t argue with me, Athena. I’m the bride.”
The room erupts into nervous laughter, a collective release of held breath. Demetria returns to her chair, settling back while she shoots me a smile. Her hand still rests protectively over her belly—but openly now, without shame, the way it should have been all along. Only when I touch my cheeks do I realize I’ve been crying.
FIFTY-NINE
RUBY
The yacht club gleams white against the deepening blue of the Aegean as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon. The Mediterranean is dotted with distant islands and passing sailboats the way I imagined it’s been for hundreds of years. The ceremony took place on the seaside terrace of the Santorini Yacht Club, where an ancient stone arbor was draped with cascading white roses and delicate greenery, the shimmering waters spread before us like a living painting. Now, as evening settles in, we’ve moved to the dining hall with its soaring ceilings, marble columns, and crystal chandeliers.
I marvel at how seamlessly the day has progressed despite this morning’s dramatic revelation. Like a stone tossed into water, Athena’s declaration caused momentary ripples before the surface smoothed once more. The wedding proceeded as planned—beautiful, emotional, and perfect in its authenticity. Demetria was radiant in her flowy, bohemian dress, designed to hide her tiny baby bump. Julian couldn’t take his eyes off her asthey exchanged vows.
