A memory surfaces of Skyler and me, lying in our bed in our apartment, planning our future. How certain I felt then. How completely I trusted that our love was enough to overcome anyobstacle. How naïve that certainty seems after just one week in the Thompson mansion.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “Leave him because his mother reorganizes my sweaters? Break off our engagement because his father is condescending?”
“No.” Lily squeezes my hand. “But maybe have a real conversation about what your future looks like if nothing changes. About whether you can spend the next thirty years as the outsider in your own family. About whether love without respect is enough.”
The café seems suddenly too loud, too bright. Reality intruding on the comfort I sought here.
“I need to think,” I say, my voice small against the clatter of dishes and conversation.
Lily glances at her watch and sighs. “And I have to get back to work. My break ended ten minutes ago.” She hesitates, clearly reluctant to end the conversation here. “Promise me something?”
“What?”
“Call me. If things get worse. If you need to talk. If you just need a break from Thompson Manor.” Her eyes search mine. “Promise you won’t suffer in silence like some martyr to love.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
“I’m serious, Harley.” All trace of humor vanishes from her face. “They’re trying to make you feel small. Don’t let them.”
We stand, gathering our things. Lily pulls me into a fierce hug, her grip almost painful in its intensity.
“I love you,” she whispers against my hair. “And I love Skyler, too. But I hate what his family is doing to both of you.”
I cling to her for a moment, drawing strength from her certainty, her unwavering loyalty. “I’ll call you,” I promise. “If it gets worse. Or if I just need to remember who I am.”
Lily pulls back, studying my face with a sister’s unflinching scrutiny. “Good. Because I’m not about to let Harley Matthews disappear into Harley Thompson, social accessory.”
She says it lightly, but the fear beneath her words mirrors my own unspoken dread. That the woman I am might not survive the woman the Thompsons expect me to become.
We part outside the café, Lily heading back to her graphic design studio, me toward the bus that will take me back to Lake Forest. Back to pristine gardens and judgment disguised as hospitality. Back to the man I love and the family that comes with him.
Lily’s words follow me, echoing with each step. Love isn’t always enough when someone can’t stand up to their family.
I hope she’s wrong, but I fear she’s right.
I glance at my watch and realize I’ve been here longer than planned. Elaine expects me back for some charity committee meeting she’s insisted I attend “to get a feel for Thompson family obligations.” The thought makes my stomach clench.
I’m late. The Thompson estate looms ahead of me like a judgment, with perfect angles and manicured hedges that seem to whisper, “You don’t belong here” with every rustling leaf.
My sensible flats slap against the cobblestone pathway as I check my watch for the fifth time in two minutes. Fifteen minutes late for Elaine Thompson’s precious charity committee meeting. Perfect. Just perfect. Nothing says “I’m worthy ofyour son” like disrespecting the Thompson matriarch’s rigorous schedule.
Nothing qualifies as an acceptable excuse in Elaine’s world. I could have been talking a teenage girl off the metaphorical ledge, and it would still register as an inconvenience rather than a necessity. Social work isn’t real work to people like the Thompsons, it’s what people do when they lack the ambition for law or medicine.
I reach for the polished brass doorknob, my reflection distorted across its surface. With a surge of determination, I twist it and push the heavy door open with more force than necessary.
The impact is immediate. A collision of bodies, a shocked gasp, and then—
Splatter.
Red wine. Everywhere.
Time slows as I watch the crystal glasses tumble from the silver tray, each one seeming to hang in the air for an excruciating moment before shattering against the marble entryway. But worse than the broken crystal is the Cabernet now spreading across Elaine Thompson’s cream-colored designer dress like a bloodstain.
“Oh my God.” My hands hover uselessly in the air between us. “I am so sorry.”
Elaine doesn’t scream, doesn’t curse—that would be too common, too revealing. Instead, she goes perfectly still, her face a mask of practiced composure that somehow communicates more rage than any shouting match could.
“Harley.” My name in her mouth sounds gross.
