My mother's smile faltered. Her fingers tensed around her champagne flute, and for a brief second, I genuinely worried the stem would snap between her manicured fingers.
We were in the five-starSalvatore International. An Italian luxury hotel and resort chain with properties across Europe, Asia, and the US. The name carriedold money, a three-commatype ofweight.
That kind of wealth made my dad's rather impressive net worth lookpedestrian.
"Oh," my mother replied tightly, her voice suddenly pitchy. "How lovely. And where is your husb—"
"You look beautiful," my father, as if he couldn't hold it in anymore, told his first wife.
My mother's mask slipped, and I looked at him sharply. That tone he was using was so unfamiliar. It was soft, adoring, like the way you speak to someone sacred.
Claire didn't acknowledge the compliment, only turned slightly toward me.
"Your daughter has grown into a beautiful young lady. You must be very proud."
"Oh, we are," my mother's tone turned glacial as she looked at me, her eyes sending a hissed message:smile, be perfect, and don't embarrass me."Elise was accepted to every Ivy Leagueschool she applied to. Thepageantswere excellent for her admissions."
I caught it—the way Claire's smile faltered slightly at the wordpageants.It was a clean hit, a direct jab which was my mother's specialty. She knew what to say to make you love her, but she also knew what to say to make ithurt.
"But New York was calling to her.Columbia.She'll be headed there in the summer."
"That's my Alma Mater. That's wonderful," she smiled at me softly, and I wondered what she was actually thinking. I couldn't seem to get a read on her face; she looked genuinely happy for me, but that couldn't be right. I was the bomb that detonated her marriage. She probably hated looking at me and was seething on the inside. "Congratulations, Elise."
"Thank you," I replied, lifting my chin a little higher, pushing my shoulders back, flashing the same practiced, perfect smile I'd worn on every stage. My mother's face softened instantly, beaming with pride.
That familiar jolt of validation—of winning—thrilled through me. I had performed, and I had won.
Thenheappeared.
"Here you go,anima mia."
An incredibly handsome man approached Claire and handed her a fresh flute of champagne. He was tall, dark-haired, and commanding in the way that only real wealth affords. I recognized him instantly—the man from the family photo.
Claire's shoulders dropped slightly, and she smiled at the man, tucking under his big arm and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. My father flinched at that while Claire's husband's brown eyes lingered on his wife for a long moment before he finally turned to give his attention to us.
"Grant Salvatore," the man introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Welcome to my hotel."
"Ellis Cabot," my father responded stiffly, shaking his hand, and I watched as they sized each other up. The tension between them was almost visible as my father's jaw clenched and Grant's eyes narrowed slightly at the name—yes, he knew precisely who Ellis Cabot was, and not just through the political sphere.
Grant's large hand tightened around Claire's hip, pulling her closer—steady and possessive. Her beautiful face looked serene, confident, a portrait of peace. It made me feel nauseous.
My mother stood next to the woman whose husband she stole and, while younger and polished and dyed and perfumed, paled in comparison.
I stared at the redhead, trying to figure out what made her more pleasing to look at, why I thought she was so beautiful. My mother had spentthousands upon thousandsof dollars on her appearance to become perfect.
There wasn't an ounce of perfection in Claire's appearance—smile lines around her eyes and mouth, excess weight in her belly and arms, probably from those little brats in that picture, and she only had a light dusting of makeup on. Her outfit was expensive, no doubt, and those jewels she wore were absolutely real, but what was it that was so attractive?
I wouldn't understand till much, much later that it was because she had something my mother never could have.
It was something that couldn't be bought to be injected into you.
Happiness. Pure happiness.
Her husband clearly adored her, she was a loving mother to two boys, and I would later learn that she had her own wealth as an art dealer. The men on either side of her—her once husband and her now husband—looked at her like mortal men look at God.
Like she was the sun, the moon, the stars.
And my mother, as her perfect, glass-like face cracked evenmore, looked like she was vanishing into thin air.
