Across the room, Arthur says, “Perhaps we should open the Bordeaux now, rather than wait for dinner.”
It’s the first time he’s initiated rather than responded, and his mild intervention seems to surprise Mary. She turns to him, momentarily thrown off. “It needs to breathe properly.”
“I think we could all use a proper drink,” he replies, his tone mild but firm. “Star might enjoy tasting it now, given her preference for red.”
The unexpected alliance—however small—catches me off guard. Arthur hasn’t exactly warmed to me, but I appreciate him trying. Mary hesitates, then nods stiffly.
“As you wish,” she concedes, turning to the drinks cabinet.
Cillian’s fingers press gently against my back in a small gesture of support and pride. I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the connection. Across from us, Bea watches with an expression I can’t quite read.
The lines are clearly drawn now across the room’s warm glow—Mary and her emerald-clad allies on one side, Cillian and I on the other. Arthur stands somewhere in the middle, no longer silently enabling his wife’s machinations.
I take a deep breath, centering myself. This is just the opening salvo in what promises to be a three-day war of attrition. Mary has decades of experience in manipulation and control; I have only my love for Cillian and the stubborn streak that’s carried me through years of artistic rejection.
But as I watch Mary’s hands tremble slightly while pouring the wine, I realize something important: she’s afraid. Beneath the glamor makeup and practiced smiles, Mary Brown is terrified of losing her son, of change, of the unknown I represent.
And fear makes people predictable.
I accept the wine glass she extends with cool efficiency, our fingers not quite touching. “Thank you, Mary.”
Her eyes narrow at my use of her first name. A boundary tested.
I raise my glass slightly, a toast to the weekend ahead. The battle has begun, the first moves made. And for the first time since entering this imposing house, I feel hope unfurling in my chest.
Chapter 4
The rich Bordeaux slips down my throat. Mary watches me over the rim of her glass, scrutinizing my reaction like I’m a glass exhibit. The fireplace casts amber light across her flawless features, creating shadows that momentarily make her appear frightening rather than sophisticated. Yet, I take another sip, holding her gaze, refusing to look away first.
Mary breaks the stare, setting her glass down with a delicate clink that echoes like a command. The room rearranges itself around her as she moves to stand before the fireplace—claiming warmth, light, and attention. Strategic positioning. Center stage.
“This wine,” Mary says to no one in particular, “reminds me of that vineyard in Provence we visited the summer before Cillian proposed to his wife.”
His wife. As if they are still married.
The shift is seamless. Meanwhile, Bea is hovering at the room’s edges, clutching a silver tray like a shield. Her up-right posture begins to crack, shoulders curving inward despite the expensive cashmere draped over them.
“You remember, don’t you?” Mary continues, voice honey-sweet. “That charming coastal town with the blue shutters?”
Bea nods automatically, her fingers whitening around the tray’s edge. “Cassis.”
“Cassis!” Mary exclaims with manufactured delight. “Yes, of course. Arthur, wasn’t that sunset spectacular the night Cillian got down on one knee? Right on those white cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean.”
Arthur gives a noncommittal sound from his chair, eyes fixed on his Bordeaux. Meanwhile, Cillian tenses beside me, his body becoming a rigid line of resistance. My spine stiffens in response. Mary’s words paint a picture meant to exclude me—a history I wasn’t part of, a romantic moment with another woman, a family united in matching emerald. A past that was meant to become a never-ending future.
“The restaurant had fairy lights strung along the terrace,” Mary continues, now including the entire room in her performance. Her hands gesture elegantly. “The waiter was in on it, of course. He brought the ring with the champagne and strawberries. Bea was stunning that night in that little white dress. Do you still have it, dear?”
Bea’s face flushes deep crimson, visible even in the firelight. Her eyes fix on some middle distance, deliberately avoiding contact. “I don’t—“ she begins, her voice cracking. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not so very long,” Mary counters with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Only six years. I have the photos in an album somewhere. You looked like a magazine cover, didn’t she, Cillian?”
I watch Bea’s mortification deepen, her grip on the tray now so tight I worry the metal might bend. This isn’t just Mary’s attack on me; it’s her weaponizing her son’s ex, using her as both shield and sword without regard for the damage. It also makes methink: would Mary like me more if I was more like Bea? Silent. Bendable. Unseen.
“Speaking of Cassis,” Cillian says, effectively avoiding his mother’s question, “Star did a two-week art retreat near Cassis last year. Her series on the limestone formations sold out within an hour.”
He’s giving me space in the narrative, and I love him for it.
Mary’s smile freezes, the expression becoming a rictus. Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, before she catches herself.
