The murmur of conversation from the dining room goes silent. I feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing against the back of my neck.
“I was rushing, I didn’t—I should have knocked, I—” The words tumble out like the wine still dripping from her hemline to the floor.
Elaine looks down at her ruined dress, then at the shattered crystal scattered across her imported marble.
“Well.” She smooths an imaginary wrinkle from the part of her dress not soaked in wine. “I suppose accidents happen…though some of us are more prone to them than others.”
Heat crawls up my neck. The suggestion hangs in the air between us. This isn’t just about wine; it’s about me. My presence in her son’s life. The unspoken question: Isn’t Skyler’s involvement with me just another unfortunate accident?
“Let me help clean this up.” I step forward, my shoe crunching on broken glass. “And I can absolutely pay for your dress to be cleaned, or replaced if—”
“Oh, honey.” Elaine’s laugh is like ice cracking. “We both know a social worker’s salary can’t afford such things.”
The casual cruelty of her assessment lands like a slap. She’s not wrong about the cost, but the deliberate reminder makes my stomach clench.
I swallow hard, willing my voice not to betray me. “I’d still like to try.”
Her eyes flick over me, assessing and dismissing in the same moment. “How admirable, but unnecessary.” She carefully steps around the puddle of wine. “Marta will handle this. The committee is waiting in the dining room. Try not to bring any more disruptions.”
She glides away to change, wine-stained but somehow still imperious, leaving me alone with the mess I’ve created. A metaphor so obvious it would be laughable if I weren’t the punchline.
A woman in a black uniform—Marta—appears with a mop and dustpan, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as she begins cleaning.I want to help her, but something tells me that would only make things worse.
I close my eyes briefly, centering myself the way I teach my clients to. This isn’t about me; this is about Elaine establishing dominance. I refuse to let her win.
With a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and cautiously step around the wet floor. The dining room awaits, no doubt full of Elaine’s carefully selected committee members. Women cut from the same expensive cloth as her.
The worst part? A tiny voice inside me wonders if Elaine is right. Am I just a temporary disruption in Skyler’s carefully plotted life path? A wine stain that will eventually be removed.
I push the thought away. Skyler loves me, and I love him. That has to be enough.
Even if it means walking into a room full of wolves in pearls who’ve just heard me break their pack leader’s favorite crystal.
The formal dining room sits seven women in tasteful designer outfits, who pause their conversations to stare at me. Their jewelry catches the light—wedding rings with diamonds the size of small asteroids, tennis bracelets that could choke a horse. I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. The wine stain incident has clearly preceded me; their perfectly made-up faces can’t quite hide their curiosity about the woman who had the audacity to ruin Elaine Thompson’s Valentino.
“Ladies,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
A woman with silver hair sculpted into an architectural masterpiece gives me a cool once-over. “You must be Skyler’s…girlfriend.”
The pause before “girlfriend” might as well be a paragraph of commentary.
“Harley,” I offer, stepping further into the lion’s den. “Harley Matthews.”
The air smells of expensive perfume and judgment. I stand awkwardly, unsure where to sit in this clearly established pecking order.
I hate this.
A younger woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes gestures to an empty chair. “We saved you a seat. Right here by me.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Veronica. Charity committee treasurer, and Elaine’s second cousin.”
Of course she is. The Thompsons collect family connections like normal people collect coffee mugs.
I slip into the chair, hyperaware of my department store dress against the buttery leather seat. The table is set with linen napkins monogrammed with the Thompson family crest, because apparently, that’s a thing people have. Meanwhile, my fingers twitch with the urge to check if the price tag is still on my dress.
“So, you’re a social worker?” This comes from a woman with aggressively blonde hair and a pearl choker tight enough to restrict blood flow. “How rewarding that must be.”
What she means is: How poor that must make you.
“It is, actually,” I say, letting a genuine smile break through. “I specialize in adolescent crisis intervention with a subset of housing insecurity. It’s challenging, but the kids are worth every minute.”
