Roz smiled like a wolf. “Fashionably.”
Next was Lillian—younger, hesitant, holding a small jar of organic honey like it might win her favor or at least excuse her nervousness. She wore a lemon-yellow dress with a cardigan that slid off one shoulder and flats that looked too new, as if she’d bought them for the occasion and wasn’t sure they fit.
“I thought this might go well with the scones,” she said, handing the jar to Evelyn, cheeks flushed before anyone had spoken a word.
Evelyn took the gift with a brittle smile and a raised eyebrow. “How quaint.”
No one spoke after that. Catherine wandered toward the living room, flicking absently through a stack of outdated journals left on the side table. Roz flopped into an armchair and pulled out her phone. Lillian stood in the entryway like a coat no one knew where to hang.
Then the doorbell rang a final time.
Olivia stood on the other side, a bottle of wine in her hand, her spine straight despite the pressure that coiled inside her likea second skin. The dress she wore was simple, stone-colored linen, sleeveless and unadorned. Her hair was pulled back, but not tightly. She’d chosen softness with intention. A kind of power she hadn’t known she could claim until Emma helped her see it.
She paused at the threshold, just for a second, exhaling as if to leave something behind. Then she stepped inside.
The house swallowed her whole.
It smelled like citrus polish and control. The floors gleamed. The hallways were lined with framed degrees, published journal articles, and newspaper features.
Her heels clicked faintly against the tile as she walked into the room. No one looked up right away. Catherine was checking her phone again. Roz was flipping through a tabloid. Lillian sat perched on the edge of a chair, knees pressed together, like she was afraid to take up space.
Evelyn stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, composed as always in a silk blouse the color of bone. Her hair was set in waves and her nails immaculate. Not a single part of her looked like she’d aged a day, except for her eyes, which had grown sharper with time. Less maternal, more mythic.
Olivia held out the wine.
“Emma picked it,” she said. “She says it’s bold with a soft finish.”
Evelyn took it and set it aside without comment.
“Well,” she said, glancing around the room with a cool detachment. “You’re all here…some more punctually than others.”
Roz laughed under her breath. Catherine’s smile tightened. Lillian glanced down at her hands.
Olivia didn’t flinch.
She knew this wasn’t a reunion. It was a reckoning.
The dining room was flawless. The table stretched long and narrow like an operating theater, set with starched linens, monogrammed china, and antique silver that hadn’t seen a dishwasher in half a century. Everything had its place. And so did they.
The name cards had been laid out on the table. Catherine to Evelyn’s right, of course, always the heir apparent. Roz on the left, the necessary shadow. Lillian, closest to the sideboard and furthest from Evelyn. Olivia, unsurprisingly, was positioned at the far end of the table, directly in the line of Evelyn’s gaze, yet too far for her voice to matter unless specifically invited to speak.
The meal began not with Evelyn’s nod. Catherine lifted the wine. Roz handled the carving knife with the casual confidence of someone who knew her way around bones. There was a choreography to it—silent, practiced, stiff.
Evelyn broke the silence with a sip of her wine and that trademark smile, the kind that stretched, but never softened.
“So, Catherine,” she said, reaching casually for the bread basket she wouldn’t touch. “Paris hasn’t mellowed your ambition, I hope?”
Catherine’s fork paused mid-air. “On the contrary. I’m more strategic than ever.”
Roz leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what they’re calling naps and red wine now?”
Evelyn didn’t look at Roz when she spoke next. “And you, Rosalind? Still performing stunts in the OR?”
Roz flashed a smile as she cut into her chicken. “Well, I did try coloring within the lines last week. But then I remembered I’m a Harrington, not a houseplant.”
That earned a snort from Lillian, quickly stifled behind her water glass.
Evelyn pivoted like a shark circling fresh prey. “Lillian, are you finally rotating off nights? You’ll burn out before you’re even board certified if you don’t start asserting yourself.”
