“Thank you,” I reply softly. “I’m feeling much better.” The lie slides out smoothly—practiced and palatable.Better now.Improved.As if I were a malfunctioning doll and not a person suffocated into silence for weeks.
Mother beams proudly at my response, and the women exchange satisfied nods.
A successful rehabilitation, their faces seem to say.
I lower my gaze modestly to hide the resentment simmering there. In truth, I feel like I’m balancing on a razor’s edge—one wrong move and I could bleed out in front of them all.
But I’ve learned how to lock the pain away where it won’t show. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s how to wear a mask that doesn’t slip.
The seats are arranged with name cards, and I spot mine next to her mother and one labeled “Mrs. Harrington.”
Chase’s mother.
My stomach tenses at the sight of her name, but I slide into my chair gracefully, smoothing my skirt under the table as though nothing is wrong.
The terrace garden is picture-perfect—potted poinsettias on every table, white twinkle lights woven through the nearby hedges, and waiters circulating with sugar-dusted scones. It’s beautiful in that hyper-curated way, every detail screaminglook how normal and lovely everything is. A string quartet plays a soft carol in the corner.
It’s a fucking winter wonderland.
I sip my tea again—now cold—and focus on the clink of china, the rustle of silk, anything to ground myself. Across the lawn, I catch a few other young women glancing my way.
Word travels fast in this world. By now, they all know the script: Mara Black had a “rough patch,” but she’s better now. She was just sick. She’s cured of her rebellious streak.
The urge to scream is an ember inside me, but I smother it down and fold my hands in my lap, projecting poise.
A stir of excitement passes over our table as a tall blonde woman approaches—Chase’s mother, Mrs. Harrington. She’s all pearls and winter-white cashmere, sweeping in with air kisses at the ready.
My mother rises to greet her, and I follow, a beat late, pushing back my chair and standing with that same practiced grace.
“Lucille, darling!” my mother exclaims, embracing Mrs. Harrington like an old friend, and they exchange feather-light cheek kisses that don’t dare smudge their lipstick. To an outsider, they look like two society queens in perfect harmony.
“Eleanor, so good to see you,” Mrs. Harrington coos in return, patting my mother’s arm. “And, Mara, dear, you look radiant.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.” I dip my head respectfully. “It’s nice to see you again.”
She gives me an approving once-over, then turns back to my mother as we all take our seats. The two of them fall into an easy, rehearsed chatter. “I hear the engagement party plans are coming along beautifully,” Mrs. Harrington says, lifting her teacup. “A union of two great families. It will be the event of the season, I’m sure.”
My mother laughs lightly. “Oh, after Christmas, of course. We’ll let the holidays have their spotlight, then ring in the New Year with a proper celebration of new beginnings.”
New beginnings. The phrase scrapes against my nerves, but I force a pleasant expression, stirring a packet of sugar into my tea. Under the table, I feel my mother’s hand slide onto my knee and squeeze—hard enough to be a warning. I realize too late that my smile had slipped at the mention of “new beginnings.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Harrington chimes in, oblivious to my lapse. “After the New Year, everyone will be positively dying for a grand event. And a summer wedding... won’t that be lovely? We can do it at the Harrington estate in June, when the gardens are in full bloom.”
“Lovely,” I echo softly.
An engagement party after Christmas, a wedding in June. I wonder if I’ll still recognize myself by then, or if by summer I’ll be the creature they’re molding me to be.
The mothers clink their teacups. “A perfect match.” My mother sighs contentedly. “Chase has been so steady through everything. Really, we’re blessed at how well he’s handled... all of this.” She waves a hand vaguely, and I know “all of this” means me—my misbehavior, my very public fall from grace.
Mrs. Harrington nods emphatically. “Oh, absolutely. The way that boy stepped up, staying by Mara’s side through herrough period... it shows such character. He’s always been a focused young man, but this proved his strength.”
My nails bite into my palms beneath the table. They’re talking about him like he’s a prized horse that passed a test of temperament.
“Mara’s lucky to have him,” my mother adds. “Not every young man would be so patient, given... well, given the circumstances.”
Mrs. Harrington leans forward to pat my hand with hers. “We’re just so glad you’re feeling better, dear,” she says sweetly. “Chase tells us you’ve been doing well. Very calm and focused.”
I yield to the pat with a tight smile. “I am. Much better. I... I owe a lot to Chase.” The statement nearly burns my tongue, but it’s what they want to hear. In reality, I owe Chase nothing, except perhaps a punch in the face for everything he’s done. But I lace my fingers together and project gratitude. “He’s been... keeping me steady.”
