“Oh?” he says. “I didn’t realize Julian was with someone.”
The sentence is polite.
The tone isnot.
Then his eyes slide past me, not subtle at all, toward the dance floor.
Toward Julian.
Toward the woman.
It’s a slap delivered with a smile.
My face heats instantly, humiliation sharp and stupid and hot behind my eyes.
I don’t confront him.
I don’t ask for my chair.
I don’t stand there and listen to anything more or make a scene.
I pick up my clutch and hold myself together with the last scraps of dignity I own.
“Excuse me,” I say evenly and head towards the restroom.
Theo’s eyes flick to mine, apology and anger tangled together.
The restroom is marble and diffused lighting, and women are fixing their lipstick as if their lives were made of silk rather than survival.
I step into a stall and grip the edge of the sink afterward, breathing slowly, counting to five, then ten. I stare at my reflection.
My hair is still curled up in its pins. My makeup is soft.
I look beautiful.
And I have never felt more like an imposter.
Okay, Lucy. You don’t get to fall apart. Not here.
I reapply lip colour with careful hands. I dab under my eyes in case there’s moisture there. I straighten my posture and practice the expression I’ve been wearing all my life:
Fine.
Capable.
Untouchable.
When I return to the table, the song has changed.
And Julian is nowhere to be seen.
My seat is open now, so I sit.
Theo drops into the chair beside me like a guard dog pretending to be charming.
“You, okay?” he asks, too casual.
I smile. “Of course.”
