“Bea was just saying last week how much she’s missed Arthur’s quail. Weren’t you, dear?” the Matriarch continues.
Bea’s smile tightens at the corners. “Mhm.”
I cut into my quail, the knife sliding through tender flesh with minimal resistance. The meat is undeniably perfect—seasoned precisely, cooked to the exact moment between tenderness and texture. I place a small bite in my mouth and taste... nothing. Not because the food lacks flavor, but because my senses are too preoccupied with the emotional currents in the room to register anything else.
“Remember that Christmas in Aspen, Cillian?” Mary continues, leaning slightly toward her son. “When the chef at that little bistro tried to convince us his quail was better than ours? You were so diplomatic about it.”
Cillian takes a slow sip of water before responding. “That was a long time ago, Mother.”
“Not so very long,” she counters, her smile unwavering. “Bea wore that cream cashmere set I gave her. The one with the fox fur trim.”
“I donated those pieces,” she says softly. “To that charity auction last year.”
“Which charity?” I ask, eager to veer the conversation.
Bea opens her mouth, but Mary beats her to it. “I’m sure it went to a good cause. Speaking of charity, Cillian, EleanorVaughn was asking about you for the hospital board. They’re looking for new blood, and your financial expertise would be—”
“Star just completed a series of paintings for the children’s cancer ward at Mount Sinai,” Cillian interrupts. “They’re installing them next month.”
“How community-minded,” she says, the pause calculated to diminish. “Arthur, did you mention to Cillian the new partnership opportunity with the Hargrove firm? The senior partner’s son was asking about him specifically.”
Arthur looks up from his methodical dissection of the quail. “I believe Cillian is quite satisfied with his current position,” he says mildly. “Star, Cillian mentioned you have a gallery showing coming up in the spring?”
The direct question clearly irritates Mary. Her lips thin to a precise line, like a pencil stroke drawn by a frustrated artist.
“February,” I answer, my voice clear and steady in the sudden hush. “At the Klein Gallery in Chelsea.”
“The Klein?” Mary interjects before her husband can respond, her tone suggesting she’s never heard of it despite the gallery’s renowned reputation. “Is that one of those experimental spaces? With the graffiti and such?”
“It’s one of the top contemporary galleries in the city, Mother,” Cillian says, setting down his fork with deliberate motion. “Star’s work was selected from over three hundred submissions.”
If I was bitchy I’d say something like, “Now Cillian darling, sophisticated art isn’t everyone’s taste.”
Mary takes a precise sip of wine, her lipstick leaving a perfect crescent on the crystal rim. “How interesting that they’d choose such unconventional subjects. Though I suppose there’s always an audience for the unusual.”
She hasn’t seen my work. Hasn’t asked about it. Hasn’t shown the slightest interest in what I create or who I am. Her dismissal is based entirely on the fact that I exist in her son’s life.
I meet Cillian’s eyes across the distance. His mouth quirks slightly at one corner, a private smile meant only for me. One that says, “Can youbelieveher?”
In that small gesture, the fifteen feet of mahogany separating us collapses. The physical distance remains, but the emotional chasm narrows. We’re still connected, still united, still a team despite Mary’s elaborate staging.
“I’m also working on a charity project at the Children’s Hospital,” I offer, trying to restart the interrupted conversation from earlier.
Bea weakly smiles, Cillian beams, and Arthur nods, but Mary asks, “More wine?” to a hovering server. Her eyes move around the table, touching briefly on Arthur, lingering on Bea, resting on Cillian. They slide over my place setting as if it’s empty.
But I’m still here. Still watching. Still wearing red in a sea of emerald.
The fear I glimpsed earlier flickers beneath her composure with each deviation from her script, each moment where reality refuses to conform to her vision.
Fear makes people predictable. But it also makes them dangerous.
I take another sip of the excellent wine and prepare for what comes next.
I’ve had enough. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity as Mary launches into yet another story about Cillian’s childhood—one where Bea features prominently despite not being there. My fork settles against the fine china with a soft clink that somehow pierces her monologue. The sound is small but deliberate, like the period at the end of a sentence I’ve been crafting in my mind throughout this interminable dinner. Fifteen minutes of watching Mary rewrite history, fifteen feet of mahogany separating me from the truth. I’m done being a spectator at my own execution.
I place my napkin beside my plate with measured care. The red of my dress feels suddenly brighter against the white linen, a visual declaration of my refusal to fade.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice carrying clearly across the dining room. Not loud, not confrontational, just present. Undeniable.
