Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
His answering smile was slow and wicked, just a slight curve of lips beneath his beard, but it hit me like a bolt of lightning. We stepped through the doors together, his hand at the small of my back, a united front against whatever awaited us inside.
We were led through the restaurant’s main dining room, where crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across white tablecloths and silver place settings. “Your party is already seated,” the hostess told us. She paused at the threshold, eyes flickering between me and Marcus.
When her gaze lingered a little bit longer than I liked, I cleared my throat loudly. I waited until her gaze snapped to mine. “I’m about to spend the most miserable forty-five minutes of my life at the table with two people I’ve not seen or heard from in six years. They’re going to berate, ridicule, and try to bully me into doing whatever it is they want from me. Believe me when I tell you I’d love nothing more than to take your skank ass to task for making eyes at my husband just to get thrown out and have an excuse to leave them sitting here all fucking night.”
Marcus barked out a laugh before quickly muffling the sound with a cough no one believed. “How about we escort ourselves the rest of the way,” he interjected smoothly. “They probably already look like they’ve had a couple too many tequilas with lemons instead of limes.”
With one last glare at the shocked woman, I put my shoulders back and marched through the double doors of a private dining room where my parents awaited.
The room was a smaller version of the main dining area, with a single table set for four beneath a chandelier. My father stood at the head of the table, rigid in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than our entire wardrobe. My mother remained seated, her back straight as a ruler, hair still the same perfect blonde as when I left, most likely courtesy of New York’s most expensive colorist.
The room contracted around me, air suddenly too thick to breathe. They looked exactly the same, untouched by the six years that had transformed me completely. Time had frozen for them, preserving their wealth, their status, their unshakable certainty that the world existed to bend to their will.
My father’s gaze swept over us, lingering on Marcus with the same expression he might use when finding something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. “Well,” he said, voice clipped. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence.”
“Hello, Father,” I replied, hating the way my voice automatically shifted, adopting the polite, deferential tone I’d spent years unlearning. “Mother.”
She didn’t rise to greet me, just inclined her head slightly. “Cora.” Her gaze traveled from my face down to my dress, lips tightening. “You’ve gained weight. Not in a healthy way.” She gave an indignant sniff, like my very presence offended her. I hadn’t seen them in six years, and that was her opening line. I bit back a hysterical laugh. Some things never changed.
“This is Marcus,” I said, refusing to acknowledge her comment. “My husband.”
The word fell between us like a grenade. My mother’s perfectly manicured hand flew to her throat. My father’s face flushed a dangerous red.
“Sit down,” he barked, not looking at Marcus, not acknowledging my introduction. “We have matters to discuss.”
We moved to the table, Marcus pulling out my chair with surprising grace before taking his seat beside me. His thigh pressed against mine beneath the table, a warm anchor in the cold sea of my parents’ disapproval.
“What exactly is this?” my father demanded once we were seated, finally addressing Marcus directly. “Some kind of joke? Showing up with this… person?”
“His name is Marcus,” I said, ice crystallizing in my voice. “And I just told you, he’s my husband.”
My mother reached for her water glass, hand trembling slightly. “We’ve been worried sick,” she said without a trace of actual worry in her tone. “This little rebellion has gone on long enough, darling. It’s time to come home.”
“Rebellion?” I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “I’m twenty-two years old, Mother. I’ve been on my own for six years. This isn’t a phase or a temper tantrum. This is my life.”
“Six years,” my father scoffed, waving away half a decade as if it were nothing. “Six years of playing poor or whatever this is. Slumming.” He gestured vaguely toward Marcus without looking at him. “Did you think we wouldn’t find you? That we wouldn’t eventually bring you to your senses?”
“I never hid,” I said quietly. “And, obviously, you could have found me at any time you wanted.”
The waiter appeared, nervous eyes darting between us as he sensed the tension. “Would you care to order drinks?”
“Scotch,” my father snapped. “Macallan 25. Neat.”
“Bring me the driest white wine you have,” my mother added.