Mary’s eyes finally slide to me.
They are blue ice chips, set in a face that is beautiful and completely unreadable. Her gaze travels down to my red dress, lingers for a heartbeat too long, and then flicks back up to my face. There is no warmth. No welcome. Just a swift, clinical calculation.
“Star,” she says, tasting the word like it’s a wine she suspects has turned to vinegar. “How... unique.”
The word lands softly, but the impact is heavy. She smiles, but it’s more like a grimace.
Before I can respond—before I can defend my name or compliment her home or tell her I brought chocolates—she turns her back on me.
“Your father is in his study, darling,” she says to Cillian, erasing me from the conversation as efficiently as if she’d used white-out. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
My hand tightens on my suitcase handle. The heat from the floor no longer feels cozy; it feels stifling. And as I look at the wall of emerald green backs turned against me, the hope I walked in with begins to curdle into something cold and hard.
The conversation shifts around me as if I’ve suddenly become transparent. I stand in my bright red dress in this pristine foyer and feel myself disappearing.
“Bea has made these lovely canapés,” Mary continues, gesturing toward the tray. “You always did love her smoked salmon pinwheels.”
His ex steps forward and lifts the tray from a side table before offering it with a tight smile. “Hello, Cillian,” she says. There’s genuine warmth in her voice, but it’s fragile, trembling under the weight of the awkwardness.
Cillian doesn’t reach for the food. He doesn’t even look at the tray. His arm tightens around my waist, his fingers digging into my hip as if anchoring me to him.
“Bea,” he acknowledges, his voice flat. Not cruel, but distant. A door closed and bolted.
She turns to me, her eyes meeting mine directly. “And Star. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry about the... circumstances.”
There’s an honesty in her apology that catches me off guard. She looks exhausted, her shoulders tight beneath that emeraldsweater. She’s as trapped in this performance as I am, just playing a different role.
“Not your fault,” I say, meaning it.
I reach out and take a canapé, purely to bridge the painful silence. Cillian, however, remains motionless. He refuses to eat from her hand, refuses to participate in this little domestic reenactment Mary has staged.
“These are lovely,” I say, the pastry flaking between my fingers. I’m trying to build an alliance in enemy territory, but the air is so thick with tension I can barely swallow.
Mary’s gaze sharpens with thinly veiled disappointment. This isn’t going according to her script. She wants a catfight, or at least a cold shoulder.
“Bea has always had a gift for entertaining,” Mary says, inserting herself smoothly between us. “She trained at Le Cordon Bleu for a summer, didn’t you, dear?”
“Just a few weeks,” Bea corrects gently, retreating a step. “It was hardly training.”
“So modest,” Mary says with a practiced laugh. “Cillian, remember that dinner party she threw for your thirtieth? The governor himself commented on the soufflé.”
Cillian stiffens against my side. This is the danger zone—the shared history. The memories I can’t compete with because I wasn’t there.
“I remember that it was a long time ago,” Cillian says, his voice dropping an octave. He turns his body slightly, shielding me from his mother’s gaze. “Star is an artist. She had a gallery showing in Chelsea last month. Sold out completely.”
It’s not just a subject change; it’s a shield.Look at her,he’s saying.Not the past.
Pride warms his voice, and gratitude floods my chest. He’s fighting back in his way—parrying Mary’s reminiscence with my present accomplishments.
Mary’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes harden into blue glass. “How lovely,” she says, dismissing my entire career with two words. She reaches up to adjust Cillian’s collar—a touch that’s both maternal and possessive. “You look tired, darling. The city works you too hard.”
Her fingers smooth his shirt. The gesture is deliberate, reminding everyone present of her right to touch, to adjust, to improve. To cross boundaries that I, despite sharing his bed, wouldn’t dare cross in her presence.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Cillian says, stepping back slightly. The movement is subtle but definitive—breaking contact, reclaiming space.
“Well,” Mary says brightly, her hand falling back to her side, “you must be exhausted from the drive. Bea, why don’t you show Star to the blue guest room while I catch up with Cillian? Dinner will be at seven sharp.”
The dismissal is surgical. Separate the couple. Isolate the intruder. Put the ex-wife in a position of authority over the girlfriend.
