THE CAB CRUNCHED TO A HALT ON THE immaculately raked white gravel, and Stephanie paid the driver with the last of her cash. The house—no, the estate—loomed before her, a monument of glass and pale stone, blazing with light against the twilight sky. It wasn't a home; it was a statement.
Stephanie tugged at the hem of her simple navy dress. It was her best, ironed twice, but under the glare of the entryway's chandelier, which looked like a frozen waterfall, she felt like a child playing dress-up. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the low, confident murmur of unfamiliar voices.
She hadn't even taken two steps onto the marble floor when a woman with a champagne flute and a surgically tight face glided over.
"Stephanie? Is that you?" The woman's eyes did a rapid, dismissive scan from Stephanie's sensible flats to her frayed purse. "My goodness. Trisha said you might come, but I hardly recognized you. You look… strained."
"I'm alright, thank you," Stephanie murmured, her cheeks flushing hot.
"Are you sure, dear?" another voice chimed in, a man with a booming laugh who didn't look at her. "You look like you need a good meal. But then, I suppose that's why you're here, isn't it?"
A cold knot formed in her stomach. She was a charity case. A spectacle.
"Excuse her," a low voice said from beside her. John. He was there, looking unfairly handsome in a dark suit, his expression tight with an anger that was entirely for her. He didn't touch her, not yet, but his presence was a shield. "She just arrived."
The small crowd dispersed, sensing the interruption of their sport.
"You okay?" John asked, his voice quiet, his eyes searching hers.
She just gave a jerky, noncommittal nod, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
"Right." He subtly took her elbow. "Air. You need air. Come with me."
He didn't wait for an answer, steering her past the glittering guests, through a set of French doors, and onto a sprawling stone terrace. The chill of the autumn night was a welcome shock. He led her down a set of stone steps and onto the grass, his pace quickening until the music and voices from the house were just a dull throb behind them.
They walked past the sculpted, manicured trees, following a path she hadn't seen in years. It ended at a wide, dry hollow in the ground, dappled with moonlight.
"The pond," she whispered. It was gone. Just a scar of packed earth and dying weeds.
"They drained it last year," John said, stopping at the edge. "Said it was a mosquito problem. I think my mother just hated the frogs."
A small, choked sound escaped her. It might have been a laugh.
"You're shivering." He was already shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelled faintly of spice and clean linen.
"John, I can't…"
"Just take it, Steph." He stood close, not touching, but radiating a warmth that had nothing to do with the jacket. "Why did you come? You know what they're like."
"I didn't have a choice," she said, her voice small. "It's Grams. Linda. She's… she's sick, John. Really sick. The doctors, the bills… I didn't know where else to go."
His face softened with a pain that mirrored her own. "Oh, Steph…" He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch was hesitant, gentle. "I'm so sorry."
She leaned into the fleeting contact, closing her eyes for just a second, allowing herself one moment of comfort. "I just need to ask them. That's all. Then I can go."
"Steph, I…"
"John! Mother's starting dinner!" A sharp, bored voice sliced through the night. Her stepsister, Chloe, stood at the top of the path, a silhouette against the house lights, her hand on her hip. "Are you coming, or are you just going to stand out there in the dark with... her?"
The moment shattered. John's hand dropped. "We're coming," he called back, his voice flat.
He gave Stephanie a look that said 'brace yourself' and led her back to the slaughter.
The dining room was an exercise in intimidation. A long, mahogany table gleamed under another monstrous chandelier, set for twenty with glittering crystal and more silverware than Stephanie knew what to do with. The air was frigid. All eyes turned to her and John as they entered.
And there, at the far end, sat her ex-boyfriend, Mark, his hand resting possessively on Chloe's bare arm. He gave Stephanie a smug, pitying glance.
Stephanie scanned the table. Every high-backed chair was taken. There was no place set for her. The humiliation was so absolute it was almost surreal. She stood, frozen, in the doorway.
"Oh, dear," her stepmother, Eleanor, said with a sigh of theatrical inconvenience. "It seems we're short a chair. How clumsy of me."
Before Stephanie could offer to wait in the kitchen, John strode forward, gripped the back of his own chair, and pulled it out.
"Take mine," he said, his voice loud in the sudden silence. He ignored his mother's sharp, indrawn breath.
"John, don't be ridiculous," Trisha snapped.
"She's my guest. She's sitting." He gave Stephanie an unyielding look until she had no choice but to slip into the warmth of his seat. John remained standing, a sentinel at her shoulder, until a flustered maid hurried in with another chair from a different room.
The dinner was a blur of clinking silver and strained, polite questions aimed at her like darts.
"Stephanie, what is it you do again? Retail, isn't it?"
"You must be so exhausted. You look it."
She watched, her stomach churning, as Beatrice leaned in to whisper something to Mark, giggling and tracing a finger along his jaw. The jaw Stephanie used to kiss.
Finally, Trisha set her wine glass down with a delicate click. "So, Stephanie. We received your... message. I hear dear Linda is unwell."
The table fell silent. This was it.
"Yes," Stephanie said, her voice stronger than she expected. "She's very ill. The doctors at the county hospital say she needs a specialist, and the insurance won't…"
"A terrible shame," Trisha interrupted, her face a mask of practiced sympathy. "I would love to help, truly. We all would." Stephanie saw the lie coiled behind her perfectly painted smile.
"That's why I came," Stephanie pushed on, desperate. "I'm not asking for a handout, just a loan. I'll pay it all back, I just need help for her treatment…"
"Well, you see," Trisha said, her smile widening. She turned, not to Stephanie, but to the rest of the table, and reached out to take Mark's hand. He, in turn, placed his other hand over Chloe's. "Your timing is just... well, it's almost poetic!"
Trisha stood, raising her glass. "We have an announcement! Our darling Beatrice and Adrianare getting married!"
The room erupted in polite applause and congratulations. Stephanie just stared. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin cold and numb.
Beatrice flashed her left hand, a diamond the size of a small iceberg glittering on her finger. Adrianwas grinning, his eyes fixed on Chloe, a picture of adoration.
The chandelier's light blurred, the edges of the room going soft and distant. The voices melted into a low, buzzing drone. Her blood pulsed a heavy, dull rhythm in her ears. Married. They were getting married.
"...so you must understand, Stephanie," Eleanor's voice cut through the fog, dripping with false regret. "A spring wedding at the Plaza doesn't just pay for itself! We are simply, completely tapped out. The deposits alone…" She made a tsking sound. "But you must come, of course! We'll add you to the list. It will be the event of the season."
To be invited to her ex-boyfriend's wedding to her stepsister, as a denial of her grandmother's medical care. The audacity of it sucked the air from her lungs.
A hot, violent wave of rage surged through her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up and flip the heavy table, send crystal and porcelain crashing to the floor. She wanted to tell them what they were—vultures, ghouls, feasting on the misery of others.
But she couldn't. The words wouldn't come. Her throat was locked tight.
Instead, her eyes found the ornate grandfather clock in the corner. 9:14 PM.
She stood abruptly. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor, a sound as violent as a gunshot in the suddenly quiet room.
"I have to go," she said. Her voice was a dead, flat thing. "I have work tomorrow."
Eleanor's mask of sympathy finally cracked, her lips thinning into a sneer. "Oh, don't be so petty, Stephanie. It doesn't suit you. Running off just because you're upset."
Stephanie didn't look at her. She pulled John's jacket tighter around her, the borrowed warmth her only comfort. Her gaze fixed on Beatrice and Mark.
"Congratulations," she said, the word tasting like ash.
She turned, grabbed her worn-out purse from the floor, and walked out of the dining room. She didn't run. She walked, step by measured step, across the blinding marble floor, through the massive front doors, and into the cold, clean darkness of the night, not once looking back.