At dinner, we're seated at an eight-person table with only five of us. The formality feels excessive, deliberate. I sit beside Emmy, finding her hand under the table when Victoria starts in on her.
"So, Emmy, still writing your little books?"
I feel my jaw tighten at "little books."
"I'm working on my fourth novel, yes," Emmy is almost overly polite, her voice carefully controlled.
"And that's sustainable financially? Long-term?"
My hand tightens on Emmy's beneath the table. She squeezes back—silent communication, a thank you.
"Her latest novel was shortlisted for the National Book Award," I say. "Her publisher has commissioned three more books."
Victoria raises an eyebrow. "Well, that's ... nice. Though I always hoped she'd use her literature degree for something more substantial. Teaching, perhaps."
Emmy's smile is frozen, but I feel the tension in her fingers.
"Emerson always had such eccentric interests," Victoria continues, addressing me now. "Her father and I tried to encourage more practical pursuits, but she was determined to live this bohemian lifestyle."
Victoria gestures vaguely at Emmy, as if her very existence is an example of poor decision-making.
"You're a partner at a prestigious firm, Adrian. Surely you want someone more ... established."
I watch Emmy's face—smile fixed in place, eyes bright with constrained emotions. I realize she's endured this for years. Years of never being enough.
Something in me snaps.
I set down my fork with careful control, the silver meeting the china with a quiet clink that nonetheless draws everyone's attention.
"I'm sorry, Victoria, but I need to interrupt."
Emmy's head whips toward me, eyes wide.
"Emmy has published three novels. Not 'little books.' Novels that tens of thousands of readers have purchased and loved. She's received critical acclaim, maintained financial independence, and built a career on her talent and work ethic alone."
Victoria opens her mouth, but I continue, my voice perfectly polite yet lethally cold.
"She works harder than most people I know. Her dedication to her craft is remarkable. Her kindness is genuine. Her talent is extraordinary."
I turn to look at Emmy now, not Victoria. Her eyes have turned glassy, lips parted in surprise.
"Violet understood what you apparently cannot—that Emmy is exactly who she should be. She doesn't need to change to meet someone else's arbitrary standards."
The table falls silent. Marcus grins into his wine glass. Rachel looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. Victoria sits completely still, speechless, possibly for the first time in her life.
"I don't understand why you think I could do better," still looking at Emmy, "Emmy is incomparable. SHE could do better, but somehow she chose me anyway."
Emmy's eyes are bright with unshed tears. I didn't plan this speech, didn't consider the potential consequences for our arrangement. I spoke from a place I rarely access—raw, unfiltered emotion.
Victoria recovers quickly, shifts topics with practiced social grace. "The weather has been lovely this week, hasn't it? Marcus, tell Adrian about your medical rotations."
The rest of dinner passes in strained politeness. Under the table, Emmy's hand stays firmly in mine. She doesn't let go, not once, through all three courses.
I meant every word I said. This wasn't strategy. This wasn't maintaining our cover.
This was real.
After dinner, Emmy excuses herself to the balcony. I wait sixty seconds—appearing casual—then follow. I find her gripping the railing, staring out at the skyline. Her shoulders are tight, her breathing carefully controlled.
