She was charming. Funny, even. She told stories about her work with the Harrington Park benefit that had the table laughing. She complimented the wine pairing. She asked Graham's date about her job and listened with what appeared to be genuine interest.
And she kept looking at me.
Not aggressively. Not with hostility. With curiosity. The way a scientist observed a specimen—detached, interested, cataloging data.
"So, Willow." She set down her wine glass. "Elena tells me you manage a coffee shop?"
"I do. Brew & Bean, on Maple Street."
"I think I've driven past it. Cute little spot. Brick exterior?"
"That's us." I took a sip of wine. Steady hands. Good.
"How long have you been there?"
"Three years. Since I was twenty."
I said it without flinching. Let the number sit on the table—twenty, three years ago, twenty-three now. If she wanted to do the math, I wasn't going to do it for her.
"That's impressive. Starting that young, taking on the responsibility." She tilted her head. “Elena mentioned you dropped out of college to do it?"
"I dropped out of a physical therapy program," I said. "Coffee was a better fit."
"I admire that. Knowing yourself well enough to pivot." She smiled. "I was thirty before I figured out what I wanted. You're ahead of the curve."
Compliment. Delivered with warmth. And underneath it, like a fishhook in velvet:thirty. The age she'd been when she was still figuring things out. The age I wouldn't reach for seven more years. The number that placed me closer to Elena's generation than to hers.
The conversation moved on. Other topics, other people. But every time Jessica spoke to me, I felt the same pattern—genuine kindness on the surface, and beneath it, the steady drip of information designed to remind me exactly where I stood.
She mentioned Callum's work habits ("He used to keep a cot in his office. Did he tell you that? For the all-nighters. I'm not sure he even owned a bed during the early years of our marriage."). She talked about Elena's childhood ("The school plays were always tricky. He'd promise to come and then call from the office twenty minutes before curtain. Elena stopped telling him about them by middle school."). She referenced their marriage with the casual ownership of a woman who'd lived inside a history I could never compete with ("We used to host New Year's Eve parties at the old house. Callum would design the invitations himself—hand-drawn. They were beautiful. People kept them for years.").
Each anecdote was offered with a smile. Each one landed in the soft, bruised place behind my ribs where I kept every fear Devon had planted and I hadn't managed to dig out.
He'll choose a building over a person every single time.
I wasn't sure if Jessica was saying it yet. But I could feel her circling.
I escaped to the powder room after dessert.
Not escaped—excused myself. Calmly, politely. The way a person did when they needed ninetyseconds alone to remember how to breathe without their nervous system staging a revolt.
The Ashfords' powder room was predictably gorgeous—marble counters, a gilt mirror, hand towels that looked too expensive to use. I stood at the sink, gripped the edge, and stared at my reflection.
I looked fine. That was the problem. I looked fine and I felt as if I was being disassembled, piece by piece, by a woman who used kindness as a scalpel.
A knock on the door. "Occupied," I called.
"It's Jessica. I'm sorry to bother you—there's a line for the upstairs bathroom and I just need to wash my hands."
Of course there was.
I opened the door. She smiled—apologetic, friendly—and stepped inside. The powder room shrank to the size of a coffin.
"Thank you. I'm so sorry, I'll just be a second." She turned on the faucet. Washed her hands with the unhurried calm of a woman who had nowhere else to be.
I should've left. Should've squeezed past her and rejoined the dinner and spent the rest of the night pressed against Callum's side where it was safe.
I didn't leave.
