Chapter 4 Mara
FOUR
MARA
Istep onto the sunlit terrace of the country club, blinking against the bright December sun that filters through white tents down below. My mother thought that some sun would do me some good this weekend, so she insisted we travel to south Florida.
Down the staircase, women in jewel-toned dresses chat at tables, their laughter tinkling like glass against their freshly poured mimosas. I stick to my mother’s side as we both descend the stairs. Her perfectly manicured fingers rest lightly on my elbow as she guides me under the main tent.
My mother was built for this life. As suffocated as she makes me feel, she seamlessly blends into this world way more than I feel I ever will.
She clears her throat, gaining attention from the other women. “Everyone, you remember my daughter, Mara.”
A chorus of polite greetings ensues. I smile as I’ve been taught—lips together, eyes soft, chin demurely dipped. “It’s lovely to see you all,” I say, though I don’t remember ever meeting any of these women, nor do I care to ever see them again after this.
Each time someone’s gaze flits over me, I feel them searching for cracks. Are they looking for signs of the girl who crashed and burned a few months ago?
Mother gently squeezes my arm—a silent directive to keep smiling.
I obey, letting her maneuver me to the next cluster of guests.
A white-gloved server passes with a tray of teacups and I take one, more for something to do with my hands than any desire to drink.
The tea is lukewarm when I raise it to my lips, but I swallow anyway, forcing down the bitter taste.
Around us, conversation flows about charity funds and holiday galas.
I nod along, playing the part of the recovered prodigal daughter who has learned her lesson.
“We’re so glad you could join us, dear,” purrs a woman in emerald lace—one of Mother’s long-time acquaintances. Her eyes sweep over me from head to toe, curiosity thinly veiled. “Your mother tells us you’ve been resting after… after everything. But you’re looking wonderful now.”
“Thank you,” I reply softly. “I’m feeling much better.” The lie slides out smoothly—practiced and palatable. Better now. Improved. As if I were a malfunctioning doll and not a person suffocated into silence for weeks.
Mother beams proudly at my response, and the women exchange satisfied nods.
A successful rehabilitation, their faces seem to say.
I lower my gaze modestly to hide the resentment simmering there. In truth, I feel like I’m balancing on a razor’s edge—one wrong move and I could bleed out in front of them all.
But I’ve learned how to lock the pain away where it won’t show. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s how to wear a mask that doesn’t slip.
The seats are arranged with name cards, and I spot mine next to her mother and one labeled “Mrs. Harrington.”
Chase’s mother.
My stomach tenses at the sight of her name, but I slide into my chair gracefully, smoothing my skirt under the table as though nothing is wrong.
The terrace garden is picture-perfect—potted poinsettias on every table, white twinkle lights woven through the nearby hedges, and waiters circulating with sugar-dusted scones.
It’s beautiful in that hyper-curated way, every detail screaming look how normal and lovely everything is.
A string quartet plays a soft carol in the corner.
It’s a fucking winter wonderland.
I sip my tea again—now cold—and focus on the clink of china, the rustle of silk, anything to ground myself. Across the lawn, I catch a few other young women glancing my way.
Word travels fast in this world. By now, they all know the script: Mara Black had a “rough patch,” but she’s better now. She was just sick. She’s cured of her rebellious streak.
The urge to scream is an ember inside me, but I smother it down and fold my hands in my lap, projecting poise.
A stir of excitement passes over our table as a tall blonde woman approaches—Chase’s mother, Mrs. Harrington. She’s all pearls and winter-white cashmere, sweeping in with air kisses at the ready.
My mother rises to greet her, and I follow, a beat late, pushing back my chair and standing with that same practiced grace.
“Lucille, darling!” my mother exclaims, embracing Mrs. Harrington like an old friend, and they exchange feather-light cheek kisses that don’t dare smudge their lipstick. To an outsider, they look like two society queens in perfect harmony.
“Eleanor, so good to see you,” Mrs. Harrington coos in return, patting my mother’s arm. “And, Mara, dear, you look radiant.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.” I dip my head respectfully. “It’s nice to see you again.”
She gives me an approving once-over, then turns back to my mother as we all take our seats.
The two of them fall into an easy, rehearsed chatter.
“I hear the engagement party plans are coming along beautifully,” Mrs. Harrington says, lifting her teacup.
“A union of two great families. It will be the event of the season, I’m sure. ”
My mother laughs lightly. “Oh, after Christmas, of course. We’ll let the holidays have their spotlight, then ring in the New Year with a proper celebration of new beginnings.”
New beginnings. The phrase scrapes against my nerves, but I force a pleasant expression, stirring a packet of sugar into my tea.
Under the table, I feel my mother’s hand slide onto my knee and squeeze—hard enough to be a warning.
I realize too late that my smile had slipped at the mention of “new beginnings.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Harrington chimes in, oblivious to my lapse. “After the New Year, everyone will be positively dying for a grand event. And a summer wedding... won’t that be lovely? We can do it at the Harrington estate in June, when the gardens are in full bloom.”
“Lovely,” I echo softly.
An engagement party after Christmas, a wedding in June. I wonder if I’ll still recognize myself by then, or if by summer I’ll be the creature they’re molding me to be.
The mothers clink their teacups. “A perfect match.” My mother sighs contentedly. “Chase has been so steady through everything. Really, we’re blessed at how well he’s handled... all of this.” She waves a hand vaguely, and I know “all of this” means me—my misbehavior, my very public fall from grace.
Mrs. Harrington nods emphatically. “Oh, absolutely. The way that boy stepped up, staying by Mara’s side through her rough period... it shows such character. He’s always been a focused young man, but this proved his strength.”
My nails bite into my palms beneath the table. They’re talking about him like he’s a prized horse that passed a test of temperament.
“Mara’s lucky to have him,” my mother adds. “Not every young man would be so patient, given... well, given the circumstances.”
Mrs. Harrington leans forward to pat my hand with hers. “We’re just so glad you’re feeling better, dear,” she says sweetly. “Chase tells us you’ve been doing well. Very calm and focused.”
I yield to the pat with a tight smile. “I am. Much better. I... I owe a lot to Chase.” The statement nearly burns my tongue, but it’s what they want to hear.
In reality, I owe Chase nothing, except perhaps a punch in the face for everything he’s done.
But I lace my fingers together and project gratitude. “He’s been... keeping me steady.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Mrs. Harrington pronounces, satisfied. “Steady is exactly what one needs in a wife.”
A sudden ripple of murmurs spreads through the nearby tables, interrupting the mothers’ conversation. I follow their gazes toward the entrance of the terrace, and my heart clenches painfully when I see the cause of the commotion.
Chase has arrived.
He stands at the top of the terrace steps in a tailored navy suit that hugs his athletic frame, the afternoon sun catching in his perfectly tousled blond hair.
In his arms, he carries an explosion of red roses—several dozen at least—bundled in elegant wrapping.
The sight is so over-the-top gallant that a collective “aw” whispers through the crowd.
Of course he’d make an entrance like this, crashing a ladies’ charity tea, unannounced, just to remind everyone what a devoted fiancé he is.
Around me, women exchange delighted glances.
“Oh, isn’t that sweet?” someone gushes at a nearby table.
“Young love!” titters another.
My spine goes rigid. He wasn’t supposed to be here; this event was meant to be just us women. I fight to keep the shock off my face, hiding it behind a veneer of pleasant surprise. Inside, a cold dread pools in my stomach. Chase is never anywhere without a purpose.
He descends the steps with an easy smile, heading straight for our table.
The roses in his arms look freshly cut, vibrant and blood-red.
I force myself to stand, because when your fiancé approaches, you stand and greet them.
It’s what’s expected. My chair scrapes lightly on the stone terrace as I rise.
“Ladies,” Chase says warmly as he reaches us. His voice is the perfect blend of courteous and charming, carrying just enough sincerity to seem real. “Pardon the interruption. I heard a rumor that all the most beautiful women in the city were gathered here, and I couldn’t stay away.”
Mrs. Harrington practically glows at the compliment, and my mother brings a hand to her chest in playful flattery. “Oh, Chase, you charmer.” My mother laughs. “We didn’t expect to see you this afternoon.”
He leans in and kisses my mother’s cheek, then his own mother’s, offering each of them one of the rose bouquets he brought. “For two radiant ladies,” he says, grinning as he hands them the flowers. They fawn over the gesture, exclaiming how thoughtful he is.
Finally, Chase turns to me. The brilliance of his public smile doesn’t falter, but I catch the steely glint in his blue eyes—a warning. I brace myself and manage to keep my own smile plastered on.