Vivian let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “The gardens are ‘wild,’ Elena. It’s a trend in Highland Falls. Not that you’d know anything about trends. You’re too busy clipping coupons and playing house with that… what was his name? The clerk?”
“His name is Julian,” I said, my voice steady. “And he’s much more than a clerk.”
“Of course, dear,” Margaret sighed, dabbing her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Every failure needs a hero to believe in. But tonight isn’t about your delusions. It’s about the Vance survival. I need two hundred thousand by Tuesday, or the West Wing will have to be shuttered. I assume you’ve saved something from your little secretarial job?”
Cliffhanger: Lily, bored by the adult cruelty she couldn’t yet understand, reached for a hand-painted egg on the table centerpiece. Margaret’s eyes snapped to my daughter, and for the first time, I saw the true predatory hunger of a woman who had lost everything but her pride.
Chapter 3: The Shattered Egg
The dinner was a slow-motion car crash of insults disguised as conversation. Every few minutes, Vivian would remind me of a promotion I didn’t get a decade ago or a social circle I was never invited into. Margaret would chime in with a weary sigh, lamenting the day I decided to “marry down” and “dilute the bloodline.”
Lily tried to be perfect. She sat still, her tiny hands folded in her lap, but she was four. She was hungry, and she was increasingly frightened by the sharp, barking voices of the women she was told were her family.
“Look, Mommy! Eggs!” Lily giggled, noticing the Sugo della Famiglia—the hand-painted Fabergé replicas scattered across the centerpiece. Before I could stop her, she slid off her chair and skipped toward the head of the table, her eyes wide with holiday joy. She just wanted to touch something beautiful.
What happened next was a blur of visceral malice.
Lily reached for an egg, her small fingers inches from the silk runner. Margaret’s reaction wasn’t maternal; it wasn’t even human. It was the strike of a cornered animal. She reached out, her hand hooking into Lily’s ponytail with a sickening yank, and she shoved the child with a force that sent her small body flying backward.
“GET OUT! YOU AND THAT BRAT DON’T BELONG AT MY TABLE!” Margaret shrieked, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated narcissism.
Lily hit the hardwood floor with a sickening, hollow thud. For a second, there was no sound—just the child’s eyes going wide with a terror that I felt in my own bones. Then, the screaming started—a high, thin sound of a soul being introduced to the world’s cruelty too early.
I lunged forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, but Vivian was faster. She stepped into my path, grabbing my arm. Her sharp, manicured nails dug through my sleeve and into my skin until I felt the hot, metallic trickle of blood.
“Don’t you dare ruin our dinner with your middle-class drama, Elena,” Vivian hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of stale gin and desperation. “Get that brat out of here. She’s a stain on this room, just like you. Mother told you to keep her in line. She’s a Vance by name only; she should learn to respect the house.”
Margaret stood over my weeping daughter, her foot still mid-air from the shove, her face a mask of cold, aristocratic fury. “I told you to keep her away from the china. Now get out of my house before I have the staff throw you into the street for trespassing. You’re no longer a daughter of this house. You’re a liability.”
