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Ulla easily went to him and patted his cheeks. He kissed her nose. “Ready to be spoiled?” The gaggle of women clutched their hearts and formed a circle by the couch. A mountain of presents rested in a corner by the leather wingback chair and Tiffany floor lamp. Peter passed Ronja’s wine to a server, guiding her to the forest-green sofa. She sat on its soft velvet. He kept Ulla on his lap, playing peek-a-boo, covering his eyes with her hands.

The presents were wrapped in gold, silver, and white with elaborate ribbon and tissue paper that Ulla put in her mouth, making it apparent she was not of age to care about presents. One by one, Ronja politely accepted the gifts: silver photo frames, a rattle embedded with cubic zirconias, the latest in car safety for children—a Tot-Guard, a squeaky metal tricycle, dresses made of taffeta and tulle and silk, patent baby shoes in white, pink, and black with rhinestone buckles, cashmere blankets, and hats. Someone at least gifted children’s books. The most confusing gift was an Olympus-Pen handheld camera. Was the camera for Ronja? She tried to get her daughter to feign some interest in her new, extravagant items. Peter did, too, but wound up on the floor with Ulla, entertaining her while Ronja finished opening the last of them. He balanced Ulla on his legs and then suddenly bounced her. Ulla shrieked with delightful terror. “Don’t fall!” He laughed and pretended to let go, then snatched her up.

The final gift was a porcelain doll with gold ringlets and alabaster skin. At least Ulla seemed drawn to it. “Gillar du bebisen?” Ronja waved the doll in front of Ulla. “Baby.”

“Ba-by,” repeated Ulla.

“Bra gumman!” Ronja laughed proudly.

“Mitt lilla hjärta!” Peter lightly shook Ulla, calling her my heart, and showered her cheeks in prideful kisses.

“What language are you speaking to her?” a woman asked.

“Our language,” Ronja said, her gaze caressing Peter’s handsome face before sinking into the blue pools of Ulla’s eyes.

A snide voice sliced through the merriment. “I’ll tell you what they’re saying.”

Ronja snapped her attention to Bridget who stood wobbling in her heels. Her purple dress was lopsided on her shoulder, and a lipstick-smeared flute of Dom Perignon hung between her fingers. She belched unapologetically and bent over, revealing her cleavage. She cooed at Ulla, “They’re saying, aren’t you just the little princess? You know what, princess Ulla, you can tell all these people to go to hell.”

Ronja scrambled to her feet. She was quicker than Peter, who was indisposed with Ulla on his lap. Ronja faked a laugh. “You’re so funny, Bridge’, come with me.”

Ronja dragged Bridget, too inebriated to resist, through the party guests, past the stairs, and into the kitchen. There were servers in black and white apparel, re-stocking trays, cutting vegetables, and washing dishes. She made a sharp turn into the pantry, and Bridget dropped the champagne glass. It shattered onto the terracotta floor, galvanizing the help. One of them hurried over as Ronja pushed Bridget inside amongst the wooden shelves stocked with boxes of pasta, canned goods, onions, packs of beer, and jars of baby food that Ulla had yet to taste.

“You are jealous and rude!” Ronja hissed at Bridget. English wasn’t coming fast enough to Ronja’s enraged mind, so she resorted to Swedish insults, until Bridget spat back, “Both of you are sick, selfish people!” She yanked on Ronja’s necklace. “With your fancy diamonds. What kind of assholes invite a bunch of prostitutes to a baby’s birthday party!”

It would’ve hurt less if Bridget had slugged Ronja. Regardless, the wind left her lungs. Prostitute. Her mind raced to the snapshot of the party. Had Peter thrown this party for Ulla as a farce? An excuse to gather clients?

Denial was Ronja’s first instinct. A savage impulse to protect the spell Peter had cast. “You are being ridiculous,” Ronja choked, but she could hardly convince herself with those words, let alone Bridget.

Frantic footsteps distracted them, followed by Peter’s curse when he crunched on broken glass. He flung the pantry door wider, his timorous eyes searching Ronja’s. “Is everything okay?” His calm voice betrayed his rapid breaths.

Ronja averted her gaze to the ground at Peter’s shiny loafers. “Where’s Ulla?”

“Gabby’s wife.”

Bridget cocked her head and sneered at Peter, her words loose and slippery. “Does Ronnie know how you got all this fancy shit, Peter⁠—?”

“You’re drunk and immature⁠—”

“You promised to help me out⁠—”

“— because you can’t hold a job.”

“Then where’s my money!”

“How much do you want, goddammit!” Peter shouted.

“I don’t want your fucking money, you pig.” Bridget shoved past both of them.

Ronja clutched her stomach as blood drained from her, pooling around her heart, drowning it in humiliation. She followed after Bridget and slipped on a shard of glass. Peter caught her and held her up against the wall. His hands were rough, clenching her bare arms. Not in anger. But in desperation. He spoke in Swedish, “She’s clearly jealous. And drunk. Whatever she said, don’t believe it. Please, Ronja. I can explain.”

She didn’t understand her conflict. Peter was dishonest and always would be. It was his nature, resting solid and deep within his bones. Ronja closed her eyes. Shouldn’t it be easy not to love someone who lies? Do I love you, Peter?

Everything cleared, and her pulse slowed. For the first time, in a very long time, she slipped into an old, familiar skin.

Ronja softened under Peter’s grip. She opened her eyes to see the emotion still steeped inside of his. She narrowed the distance between their lips. “Tell me later. Let me go nurse Ulla and put her to bed. Take your time with the guests.”

Peter cradled her face and examined her eyes, but he’d find no trace of what she was hiding, how she was plotting to undo him. She left him in search of her daughter.