"I know who he is." My appetite vanishes. "He has a reputation."
Mother's eyebrows rise fractionally. "A reputation for excellence, I’m sure. His father says he's already bringing in new clients."
"That's not the reputation I'm talking about." I set my fork down carefully. "Three girls from school have stories about him. None of them good."
"Gossip," Mother dismisses with a wave. "Young women can be so vindictive when relationships don't work out."
"He drugged Melissa Winters' drink at a fraternity party." The words hang in the air between us.
Dad clears his throat. "Those accusations were never proven. The Bradfords are a good family."
"With good money," I add pointedly.
"Well, yes." Mother doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "Financial stability is important in a marriage, Camille. Your little... hobby... isn't going to maintain the lifestyle you're accustomed to."
"My career," I correct her. "And it's already paying my bills."
"The rent on that tiny apartment, perhaps." She sniffs. "But what about when you want children? A summer home? Private schools?"
"I don't need a man to provide those things."
Dad chuckles like I've said something adorably naive. "Be realistic, sweetheart. Interior design is fine for now, but it's not a real career. Not for someone with your background."
The dismissal burns. After years, it shouldn't still hurt, but it does. "Alexander Kingsley seemed to think I was talented enough to recommend me to his business associates."
"Well, that's something at least. Good connections are important."
Of course that's what impresses him. Not my work, but my proximity to wealth and power.
"We just want what's best for you, darling." Mother reaches across to pat my hand. Her diamond tennis bracelet catches the light. "And what's best is finding a suitable husband before you're... well, before options become limited."
"I'm twenty-four, not forty-four." I pull my hand away. "And I'd rather be alone than with someone like Patrick Bradford."
"Don't be dramatic." She sighs. "I've invited the Bradfords to the charity gala next month. You could come. Wear that blue Valentino—it makes your eyes pop."
I push my chair back from the table. "I have plans that weekend."
"Cancel them." It's not a suggestion.
"No." The word comes out quiet but firm. "I won't be paraded around for Patrick Bradford or anyone else. If my career choices and lifestyle are such disappointments to you both, maybe we should take a break from these brunches for a while."
Mother's face goes rigid. Dad looks genuinely confused, as if he can't comprehend why I'm being difficult.
"You're being overly sensitive," Mother says after a moment. "No one is disappointed in you. We just want more for you than... decorating rooms."
"Creating spaces," I correct her. "Spaces that make people feel something. That's what I do, and I'm good at it."
I stand up, smoothing my dress again. "I should go. I have work to prepare for tomorrow."
"On Sunday?" Mother looks scandalized.
"Yes, mother. Some of us work for a living," I say, immediately regretting the petty jab.
Dad frowns. "There's no need for that tone, Camille."
"You're right. I'm sorry." I'm not, really, but the conditioning to apologize runs deep. "Thank you for brunch."
I leave without the customary kisses goodbye. In the elevator, I exhale slowly, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders only to be replaced by a familiar hollow ache. No matter what I achieve professionally, I'll never be enough for them. Not unless I marry into money and status, the only things they value.
