My fingers tighten around the stem of my water glass, knuckles whitening with the effort not to shatter it. Skyler notices—I see his eyes flick toward my hand—but he says nothing, does nothing. Instead, he takes another bite of food like we’re discussing the weather instead of his ex-fiancée’s superiority.
Marta clears the plates, the brief interruption doing nothing to derail the Thompsons’ Amanda appreciation tour.
“Did she mention the Palmer gala?” Elaine asks Robert. “I heard she wore Valentino. Impeccable taste.”
“She did look exceptional at the Palmer gala,” Robert confirms. “Several associates commented on it.”
I watch Skyler from the corner of my eye. His shoulders curl forward slightly, his posture a millimeter less perfect than the Thompson standard. He adjusts his tie, though it needs no adjustment. Discomfort radiates from him, but not enough for him to actually intervene.
“You know,” Robert says, leaning back as Marta sets the main course before him, “we should invite her to the Thompson Foundation dinner next month. She adds such elegance to those events.”
The invitation hangs in the air like a guillotine blade. This is it—the moment Skyler should speak up, should point out the inappropriateness of inviting his ex to a family function while his fiancée sits right here. It’s one thing for Amanda to show up to his mom’s women’s club, but it’s another to invite her to a specific family event.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Skyler takes a sip of water. Dabs his mouth with his napkin. Picks up his fork again.
The silence stretches until Elaine fills it, naturally. “What a marvelous idea, Robert. I’m sure Amanda would be delighted. She’s always considered us family, engagement or not.”
My chest constricts, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. I set my knife down with deliberate care, afraid of what I might do with it otherwise. The heavy silver makes a soft clink against the fine china—such a delicate sound for the rage building inside me.
“The Foundation dinner is black tie, of course,” Elaine continues, her eyes sliding to me. “Quite formal. Perhaps we should discuss appropriate attire, Harley. I know formal events aren’t really your milieu.”
Still, Skyler says nothing. His silence is a betrayal more profound than any words could be.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of the professional composure I use when facing hostile judges and difficult clients. “Thank you for your concern, Elaine, but I’m familiar with formal attire requirements.”
“Of course, dear.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy to recommend my personal shopper if you’d like some guidance.”
The meal continues, each bite tasting like ash. I focus on the family portraits watching our performance—stern faces that seem to approve of Skyler’s spineless compliance while judging my obvious inadequacy. One particular painting dominates: Skyler’s grandfather, his expression so similar to Robert’s, it’s unsettling. Three generations of Thompson men, all trained to value family legacy over individual happiness.
By dessert, my jaw aches from clenching it. Skyler makes one attempt at physical connection as his knee briefly touches mine beneath the table. I shift away immediately, the contact burning like betrayal.
He chose silence again. And in doing so, he made his choice perfectly clear.
I follow Skyler up the grand staircase, watching his perfectly straight back as he climbs each step. The weight of unspoken words presses against my sternum. Dinner was humiliating. Elaine and Robert’s Amanda worship tiring, with Skyler as the silent accomplice. My hands shake slightly, not from fear but from restraining myself through three courses of thinly veiled insults and pointed comparisons. Not anymore. In the guest wing hallway, safely out of earshot from his parents, I grab his arm, forcing him to face me.
“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out low and dangerous.
Skyler has the decency to look uncomfortable. “Let’s not do this in the hallway.”
“Why not? Afraid someone might hear me point out what a coward you are?”
His eyes dart to the side, checking for witnesses to his shame. “Harley, please. You know how they are about Amanda.”
“No, Skyler. I know how you are about Amanda.” I cross my arms, planting myself firmly in his path. “You sat there while your parents suggested inviting your ex to a family function. You said nothing.”
“It’s complicated—”
“It’s actually very simple. They disrespected me, and you let them.” The dinner’s accumulated humiliations burst from me like water through a broken dam. “Your father practically gave her a job recommendation at the table. Your mother all but said Amanda was the perfect Thompson bride. And you just sat there, rearranging your silverware like it was the most fascinating task in the universe.”
Skyler runs a hand through his hair, disheveling his perfect Thompson style. “What was I supposed to say? Arguing with them only makes things worse.”
“Worse for who? For you?” I step closer, the navy dress suddenly feeling too tight, too constricting. “Because it couldn’t get much worse for me.”
