“The shoulders are wrong.”
The tailor, hovering behind us, frowned. “We can take them in, madam?—”
“It’s her shoulders,” my mother clarified. “Not the dress. Forget it. Her body isn’t in the right shape for a tailored fit.”
Heat crept up my neck.
We did this for three hours. Stand still. Turn. Step closer. Step back. Be quiet. Answer when prompted. Take the pin prick without flinching.
Unfortunately for me, that horror ended only to be escorted to the next one.
The dynasty daughter luncheon was held at an airy hotel terrace overlooking the city; glass walls, pale marble, crystal chandeliers hung to look effortless. Everything about it screamed casual wealth. We arrived fifteen minutes late — on purpose. My mother liked making an entrance.
“Fix your straps,” she said as the hostess greeted us. “And stand up straight. You’re already short; don’t make it worse.”
I straightened, lifting my chin.
Inside, the room was a pastel nightmare. Blush, cream, soft gold, every table a picture of curated femininity.
“Remember,” my mother murmured, looping her arm through mine like we were friends. “Smile. Don’t volunteer information. No one needs to hear about your little deals. Leave the heavy talk to the men.”
“My ‘little deals’ pay for half this room,” I said under my breath.
She squeezed my arm hard enough to bruise. “Don’t be vulgar, Madeline.”
We hadn’t even reached the first cluster of women before someone called my name.
My mother flourished here, playing the role of elegant saboteur with frightening ease.
When someone praised my intelligence, she leaned in with, “She’s too hard on herself. She gets so emotional about outcomes.”
When a woman mentioned seeing me at a negotiation, she said, “She’s bright, but she’s still green. If she weren’t so sensitive, she’d be perfect.”
When one of the wives remarked that I seemed composed under pressure, my mother laughed. “Oh, that’s all training. She collapses later. My poor girl isn’t built for pressure.”
Each comment a thread. Sharp enough that the people listening absorbed it and filed it undertrue.
I felt myself shrinking with every polite laugh.
“Your daughter is very impressive at the table,” one matriarch said later.
I felt like I was watching myself from the ceiling.
“Yes, well,” my mother said, tightening her grip on my shoulder, “she also lost the Ventnor agreement last week. Nobody talks about that part.”
My chest punched inward.
“That was not her fault,” the woman said gently. “Ventnor’s heir refused any compromise.”
“Still,” my mother insisted, swirling champagne, “Madeline oversold her proposal. Five successes don’t erase one very embarrassing loss. A dynasty daughter can’t crumble at one ‘no.’”
“I didn’t crumble,” I said quietly.
She smiled at the table, the expression not reaching her eyes. “Of course you didn’t, darling.”
After the third round of being introduced with a list of my flaws disguised as affectionate concern, I stopped trying to correct the record.
When we finally returned home, I felt half dead.
