Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
This place doesn’t flaunt its wealth—it radiates it. It’s in the starched linens, the gleaming brass sconces, the hush that settles over the room like reverence. Everyone here already knows they belong.
Sunlight pours through arched windows, catching on crystal flutes filled with chilled rosé and something lavender-infused. It’s too early for this much makeup, this many diamonds, and this many polished smiles. Name tags are pinned to designer dresses like medals.
Mrs. Annelise Danforth — Wife of Andrew Danforth, Co-founder of the Hudson River Art Collective
Mrs. Marigold Benton — Wife of Peter Benton, Patron of the Young Philanthropists’ Society
Mrs. Catherine Ellison — Wife of Barron Ellison, Chairwoman of Homes for Wealthy Widows
Every single one of them is someone’s wife, someone’s co-founder, or someone’s plus-one to power.
There’s not a single woman in sight, and my tag simply says, “Guest.”
I lower myself into the only remaining seat at the table, trying not to wrinkle the fabric of my dress. A waiter pours water into my glass, and I thank him with a nod—but he doesn’t look at me.
Across the table, a redhead with cheekbones sharp enough to slice cake raises her glass.
“To women who don’t need their husbands to build their empires.”
A round of laughter follows.
My stomach sinks lower and I look for a way to slink away and escape.
The woman beside me—tan, toned, and drenched in Chanel—leans in. Her perfume is floral and overwhelming.
“So,” she says, dragging the word, “what do you do?”
I straighten, forcing out the words that Harrison has hammered into me. “I help manage a luxury farm resort in Tennessee. Family-owned.”
“Oh.” She looks more interested in her wine glass. “How... fun. A farm like with chickens and pigs? Or a farm with like… Your husband runs it, huh?”
“No, it’s actually…” I stop talking when I see her glancing at my left hand and pursing her lips. She turns to the woman at her other side and starts a new conversation.
Perfect.
The waiter returns with four bottles of wine, setting them down in front of us without a word.
I scan the tasting card. I know these wines. Harrison drilled me on them all week—flashcards, phonetics, nightly quizzes. I’ve repeated them aloud so many times the names should come out like second nature.
But when it’s my turn, my tongue stumbles.
I lift my glass and say, “I think this one is a... Coat Rotty?”
A beat of silence.
The woman beside me chokes on a laugh, covering it with her napkin.
“It’s Côte-Rôtie,” she says sweetly. “It’s French. Most people wouldn’t know unless they’d actually visited the region.”
Snickers ripple down the table. One woman sips her drink to hide a smile. Another arches an eyebrow and glances at my name tag.
Heat scorches the back of my neck. I take a sip of the wine to disappear into the glass, but the dryness clings to my mouth like chalk.
Time crawls. I cut my croissant too loudly. I nod too much. I keep folding and unfolding my napkin. My dress feels too tight under my ribs. My heels pinch. I try to subtly shift in my seat, but my heel snags on the tablecloth.
As I tug it free, a blonde woman across from me leans in, her voice deceptively soft.
“Oh, by the way,” she says, pointing delicately toward my back. “Your dress still has the tag on it.”
I freeze.
“You may want to tuck it in... unless you’re planning to return it later?”
My hand flies to the back of my dress, but before I can fix it—ripppp!
The entire side seam tears open with a pop that echoes louder than the clink of silverware.
The table falls silent for one perfect, horrifying beat.
Then comes the laughter.
I don’t even need to look. I feel their delight. Someone mutters something in French. Another lifts her phone slightly under the table, angling it—not quite taking a picture, but not not either.
My skin goes cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
“I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “Excuse me, please.”
I rise too fast, nearly knocking over my chair. I don’t look back.
I won’t give them the satisfaction.
Not one tear.
Not one word.
I walk as quickly as my ruined dress will allow, chin high, stomach in knots, and disappear into the marble-lined hallway.
I feel like I’m in high school all over again—drawing the ire of the girls with the perfect hair and impossible standards. Except this time, my dad isn’t here to tell me I don’t have to go back. That I could finish the year from home.
Don’t you dare cry, Eliza. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
I rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and press them against my face—not because I’m crying, but because I won’t. I bend over the sink and breathe. In. Out. Again.
My reflection doesn’t crack, but it doesn’t look brave either.
I ignore the woman drying her hands at the far sink. As soon as she leaves, I head to the door to lock it behind me. I just need a minute. Maybe two. Then I’ll leave.