“For reconsidering some aspects of the wedding plans,” she continues smoothly. “The venue you’ve chosen is certainly charming, but as I mentioned before, the Drake has much more suitable accommodations for a Thompson affair. They could likely still fit us in if we need to postpone due to your housing situation.”
This is my chance. I need to shut this down now, make it clear that our wedding plans aren’t changing. I feel Harley’s eyes on me, waiting for me to speak up.
“Mother, we’ve already discussed—” I begin, but my dad interrupts.
“The Henderson project is progressing nicely,” he says, redirecting the conversation toward safer ground. “Though the client continues to push back on the premium materials I’ve suggested.”
“They’ve made it clear that they want to stay within the original budget,” I say, grateful for the subject change, yet hating myself for the relief I feel.
“Budgets are flexible, son. That’s the first rule of business.” He cuts his fish. “Speaking of which, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing the designs again. I’ve made some adjustments that I think will elevate the entire concept.”
My stomach sinks. “You changed my designs without consulting me?”
“Enhanced,” he corrects. “That’s what collaborative partnership means. I’ve emailed them to you. We can discuss it tomorrow at the office.”
“I have client meetings tomorrow.”
“Reschedule them.” Not a request. “This takes priority.”
I nod, the familiar pattern reasserting itself. For a moment, I’d forgotten my place in the Thompson hierarchy.
Beside me, Harley pushes her food around her plate, her earlier appetite visibly diminished. I want to reach for her hand under the table, offer some silent support, but even that small gesture feels impossible under my parents’ watchful eyes.
Dessert arrives. My appetite has vanished, but I go through the motions, aware that refusing would only prompt more unwanted attention.
“Will you be joining Skyler at the office tomorrow, Harley?” Father asks. “Or do you have appointments for your cases?”
“Court appearance in the afternoon,” she answers, her voice neutral. “But I could use the morning to catch up on paperwork…if there’s space for me at the house.”
“Of course,” Mother says. “Though you might find the library rather distracting. Perhaps the small sitting room off the south wing would be more suitable. It’s rarely used.”
Translation: stay out of the main areas where you might be seen by visitors.
“That sounds perfect,” Harley says, and I marvel at her composure.
When dinner finally concludes, Mother rises with practiced grace. “Skyler, why don’t you show Harley to her room in the guest wing? I’ve had Eliza prepare the blue room.”
“The blue room?” I echo. “But that’s on the opposite side of the house from my old room.”
Mother’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. We maintain proper arrangements for unmarried guests, dear. I’m sure you understand.”
Proper arrangements. As if Harley and I haven’t been living together for years.
I want to protest, to point out the absurdity, but the words stick in my throat like always. Plus, it is her house.
We ascend the grand staircase, Harley beside me, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The distance between us feels greater than the physical space, and I struggle to find words to fill it.
“Your room is nice,” I offer lamely when we reach the blue room, a spacious but impersonal guest suite, decorated in various shades of navy. “The bathroom has a great shower.”
Harley sets her overnight bag on the bed. “Is this where Amanda stayed when she visited your parents?”
The question catches me off guard. “No. They put her in the rose room, next to my childhood bedroom.”
A flicker of hurt crosses Harley’s face before she masks it. “I see.”
“I’m sorry about dinner. I should have said something when they—”
“It’s fine.” She doesn’t look at me. “I knew what I was walking into.”
