3. Elena
Elena
By midnight, the party has thinned to the people who believe family invitations do not include an ending time.
Adrian’s parents have moved into the library with two board members and a bottle of cognac.
His brother is stretched across one of the pool loungers with his shoes off, telling a story everyone has heard twice.
Somewhere near the hedge, a woman laughs too loudly, followed by the unmistakable splash of someone falling into the pool.
I stand in the kitchen eating cold truffle fries over the sink.
Mara leans against the counter beside me. “Very glamorous.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“You planned a five-course dinner.”
“And tasted none of it.”
She reaches into the bowl and steals a fry. “Then I suppose the obvious question is whether Adrian noticed you took off the necklace.”
I stare through the open doors at my husband.
He is beside the pool, one hand in his pocket and the other curled around a glass of bourbon. The watch gleams on his wrist whenever he moves. He has looked at it at least a dozen times tonight. Each time, something private crosses his face.
He has not looked at my throat once.
“He had a lot of people demanding his attention.”
Mara’s expression goes flat. “Elena.”
“Not tonight.”
“Especially tonight.”
I put down the fry I am no longer hungry enough to eat. “If I tell him in front of everyone, he’ll be humiliated. If I wait until we’re alone, he’ll blame his assistant. Either way, I become the woman who cared too much about a diamond necklace.”
“It isn’t about the necklace.”
“I know that.”
“Does he?”
Before I can answer, Seraphina sweeps into the kitchen and takes Mara’s champagne from the counter.
“Thank God,” she says after drinking half of it. “Your guests are painfully married.”
“Those are Adrian’s friends.”
“Same difference.”
Mara takes the glass back from her. “Some of us still use the primitive custom of asking before taking things.”
Seraphina smiles. “Elena doesn’t mind sharing.”
There it is. The family myth that has followed us since before we were old enough to understand it.
Seraphina wants. Elena shares. Seraphina takes. Elena forgives.
When we were twelve, she wore my new riding boots into the creek and returned them stained beyond repair.
When we were sixteen, she took my place at a summer program after I came down with pneumonia and introduced herself to everyone as Elena because she liked the recommendation letter written for me.
At nineteen, she kissed my boyfriend beneath the bleachers at our parents’ country club, then insisted he started it because he mistook her for me.
Our mother made me forgive them both.
He was confused, she said.
Seraphina was lonely.
I was the sensible one.
“What did you take this time?” I ask.
Seraphina’s smile tightens. “You make me sound like a thief.”
“You’re drinking Mara’s champagne.”
“Which I would happily replace.”
“That has always been your defence. You can replace the dress, the opportunity, the boyfriend, so why should anyone care that it wasn’t yours?”
The kitchen seems to quiet around us.
Mara looks from my face to Seraphina’s. “I’m going to see whether the man in the pool drowned.”
She squeezes my hand before leaving.
Seraphina waits until we are alone. “This is about the necklace.”
“This is about you telling me you would be better at being my husband’s wife.”
“It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Because you’re afraid I’m right?”
I laugh once, more from disbelief than amusement. “Adrian would last three days with you.”
“Maybe he’s tired of being managed.”
The word lands exactly where she aims it.
“You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know he barely touched you all evening unless someone had a camera pointed at you.”
Heat crawls up my chest. “You were watching us that closely?”
“Everyone was. It was an anniversary party. You were supposed to look in love.”
I move closer, keeping my voice low. “We are in love.”
“When was the last time he came to bed before you fell asleep?”
“That is none of your business.”
“When was the last time he made you come?”
The question is so invasive that I feel it like a slap.
“Get out.”
“Elena.”
“You don’t get to stand in my kitchen, drink my friend’s champagne, and interrogate me about sex with my husband.”
Seraphina sets the glass down. For an instant, something vicious shows through her beauty. Then it disappears, replaced by the soft, wounded expression that has rescued her from consequences our entire lives.
“I’m worried about you.”
“No. You’re curious about where the weakness is.”
Her eyes sharpen.
I have finally said something true enough to hurt her.
The kitchen door opens before she can answer. Adrian enters, bringing the warm night and the scent of bourbon with him.
His gaze moves between us. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Seraphina says.
“Your sister was leaving,” I say at the same time.
Adrian looks at me for an explanation, but the day has worn every honest word inside me down to the bone.
If I tell him what Seraphina said, he will call it tasteless and ask her to apologize.
She will cry. My parents will call tomorrow.
Vivienne will accuse me of creating drama at Adrian’s anniversary celebration.
Somehow, I will become responsible for making everyone comfortable again.
“We’re tired,” I say.
Adrian accepts the answer too easily.
“The last car is leaving,” he tells me. “Come upstairs when you’re done?”
The question and the huskiness beneath it send an unwilling spark through me. Maybe he felt the distance too. Maybe tonight can still become something that belongs only to us.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
His eyes lower to my mouth. “Don’t make it twenty.”
He touches my hip as he passes, firm enough to remind me of what his hands feel like without an audience.
Seraphina watches him leave.
“Powerful men don’t stay faithful to women who stop surprising them,” she says quietly.
I turn on her. “Is that a warning?”
“Advice.”
“Keep it.”
She walks out without saying goodbye.
I wait until I hear her heels cross the terrace before carrying two abandoned glasses upstairs. The bedroom door is open, but Adrian is not there. Water runs in his dressing room, and his phone vibrates on the nightstand.
I set the glasses down and notice that one of my perfume bottles has been moved.
It sits near the edge of the dressing table instead of on the mirrored tray. The faceted stopper is crooked. When I lift it, the glass is warm from someone else’s hand.
My perfume hangs in the air.
Not the scent Seraphina wore when she arrived.
Mine.
The fragrance Adrian once told me he could recognize with his eyes closed.