Chapter 6
I am an alien among my own species, fluent in their language, trained in their customs, and still incapable of belonging.
They look like me, breathe like me, laugh like me—yet somehow, the rules they were born knowing remain foreign to me.
Tonight, those rules glitter beneath the chandeliers of the Navarros’ ballroom, embodied in jewel-toned gowns, diamond cuffs, and perfunctory smiles.
Waiters in white glide through the crowd with champagne and canapés. A string quartet plays near the terrace doors, nearly drowned out by the low hum of more than one hundred guests exchanging pleasantries and gossip in the same breath.
Women laugh with their hands resting over the soft swell of their stomachs.
Men discuss markets, mergers, and legacy as if all three can be secured with the right signature.
Children weave between the tables in miniature tuxedos and tulle dresses, their laughter bright enough to turn everyone tender .
Everyone except me.
I keep my spine straight, looking every inch like a woman made for this life.
The wife of the billionaire every camera hunts.
The wife everyone keeps appraising with polished curiosity, my empty womb reduced to a quarterly report they are all waiting to read.
I should’ve known from the moment Guinevere sounded pleased over the phone when Xavier told her we were coming that this was never going to be just dinner.
No. It was another way to remind me of my defect.
The dinner was supposed to be intimate by Navarro standards: family, a few donors, and select board members.
Elise had mentioned there were usually no more than fifty people in attendance, so I still do not understand how the guest list managed to triple itself.
Or why half the women here are pregnant, their rounded stomachs displayed beneath silk and satin as if they had been summoned for the sole purpose of standing in front of me.
It was only later, when Guinevere noticed our confusion, that she explained the change in that breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice of hers.
The Sereno Group had recently funded a pediatric research wing at Saint Aurelia Children’s Hospital, and the family had decided to fold the announcement into the annual dinner.
A celebration of children. Of legacy. Of the kind of future my body keeps failing to give my husband.
The timing couldn’t have been more deliberate.
The furtive glances and murmured speculation began the moment my husband and I arrived. Some family members were less discreet, openly gawking at me, gesturing behind champagne flutes, and exchanging snickers too brazen for me to pretend they were accidental.
Their scrutiny has clung to my skin, prickling along my bare arms with every whispered judgment I pretend not to hear.
I draw in a measured breath and force my mind into a calmer lane. We are miles from home, but the performance remains the same.
Smile. Stand tall. Look radiant. Bleed quietly .
This room’s cruelty is one of the indignities I learned to endure in public. Almost civilized, compared to what strangers online think of me.
The internet christened me an empty vessel after the tabloids photographed me outside fertility clinics one too many times. The most vitriolic comments said I was so defective my body probably lost them before they ever had the chance to become babies.
I always find that laughable.
Because that would mean my body had given me a sign of life in the first place.
Amid the acrimony, there were kind comments too. Women defending me beneath photographs they never should have seen in the first place. Some offered pieces of themselves in the replies—miscarriages, failed cycles, hormones that made them unrecognizable, marriages buckling under the weight of hope.
Realizing how many of us were carrying different versions of the same grief undid me. Soon, I was crying for an entirely different reason.
My own pain receded for a breath while I prayed to whatever gods still listened to grant them solace.
Their words granted my defectiveness a temporary reprieve, but the callous voices always eclipsed the compassionate ones. Or maybe I am simply a masochist, considering I keep returning to those comments just to feel the wound reopen.
But the ones I dread most do not hide behind usernames. They stand beneath chandeliers in diamonds and pearls, waiting for blood. Let your guard slip for even a moment, and they’ll tear you apart, then call it concern.
I learned that the first time I set foot in my so-called in-laws’ home. They welcomed me with air kisses and brittle smiles, their eyes sharp as knives as they measured every inch of me and found it lacking.
Now I’m playing my part. I smile when I have to, nod when I’m expected to, and sip my wine between polite questions.
The woman droning in my ear confirms it. One of Xavier’s aunts, I think; there are too many relatives to keep straight. She has been talking for the past half hour without pausing for breath, all pearls and gray hair and blood-red nails, her heavy perfume buzzing in my skull like a trapped bee.
I catch only fragments about her accomplished children, gifted grandchildren, and the exhausting burden of keeping a family name respectable.
None of which I give a shit about.
Every word comes coated in syrupy sweetness. I wonder how much it’d cost to have her mouth stitched shut.
I bet Colette would volunteer, if only to put her excellent knife work and needling skills to charitable use.
I make a mental note to ask her later.
“Are you listening to me, dear?” the aunt asks, arching a penciled-in brow at me.
I snap to attention, tightening my grip on my wineglass. “Of course,” I lie smoothly.
She steamrolls on. “Remind me, how long have you been married to Xavier now? Two years?”
I have to fight the urge to snort at the cliché. A well-aimed barb masquerading as conversation. It will come back to how I do not measure up—somehow, some way.
For Xavier, I remind myself.
He is still speaking with Guinevere across the room, though speaking feels too generous for whatever this is.
She has spent the better part of an hour keeping him pinned beneath that breathy voice of hers, smiling each time he tries to look past her toward Elise, as if every attempt to leave amuses her.
His posture remains immaculate, his expression carved into that flawless public mask he wears too well. If he finishes soon, we can leave before I start asking elderly women whether they prefer silk thread or fishing wire.
Clearing my throat, I correct her with a brittle smile. “Eight years. We met eight years ago in London. We’ve been married for four.”
“Ah, of course,” the woman replies, smiling with too many teeth and too little warmth. “Forgive me, Isabel. I lose track of time.”
Isabel?
My smile doesn’t budge, but something inside me flinches. “It’s Yara, actually,” I say, keeping my tone light and pleasant. “Like the letter before Z.” I face her properly and draw each letter in the air with one manicured finger. “Y. A. R. A.”
In case you’ve forgotten the alphabet, you old bat , I add silently, savoring the tiny jab.
She looks at me like I have grown three heads. Her mouth opens, too-white teeth flashing as she attempts the name.
I click my tongue, all gentle disappointment. “Almost. Let’s try again, Susie.”
Her expression collapses into pure scandal as she clutches her pearls. “My name isn’t Susie.”
I squint at her, pretending not to hear, then remember I do not, in fact, hear with my eyes.
A few people clustered around us chuckle softly, uncertain whether it is safe to laugh openly.
The aunt’s eyes flash with irritation before she waves a dismissive hand.
“Oui, oui, Yara. Such a beautiful name,” she concedes, though I can tell it pains her.
Then, with a theatrical sigh, she tilts her head.
“And yet, still no children? Mon Dieu. I don’t know how you manage all that quiet in your house. ”
The words drop into the chatter around us like a stone in a pond, soft in tone, sending ripples everywhere.
Don’t let it get to you.
Do. Not. Let. It. Get. To You.
I draw in a slow breath and force my fingers to loosen on the glass before it gives under my grip.
Of course. That’s all this is.
A reminder.
That my empty house—my empty body—is something they can pick apart over dinner.
Conversations falter nearby, then resume with forced brightness. My cheeks burn, but my composure holds.
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it catch the light. “Better an empty house,” I say, lifting my gaze and letting it drift deliberately around the room before settling back on her, “than a full one without manners.”
Someone inhales sharply. The aunt’s smile flickers, uncertainty creeping in, as if she can’t tell whether she has been insulted or entertained.
“Oh, in case you’re confused, Susie,” I add, taking a slow sip of my wine. “That was, indeed, an insult.”
She starts blathering again, but I tune her out, my gaze drifting across the ballroom in search of my husband.
He has finally escaped Guinevere.
Now he stands a few yards away near the bar, speaking with one of Saint Aurelia’s trustees. He looks calmer, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other curled around a lowball glass of scotch. An easy smile curves his mouth, making him look like charm and effortless belonging given human shape.
Despite myself, I smile.
Seeing him like this—composed, steady, briefly untouched by whatever Guinevere said to him earlier—makes the room feel a little less hostile.
He hadn’t been this relaxed when we arrived. Maybe he and his mother reached some temporary ceasefire. Or maybe Xavier is simply better than anyone I know at putting on another mask and making a battlefield look like a room I can breathe in.
Heat creeps up my neck at the memory of my husband’s hands on me, inside me—the way we clawed the tension out of each other in the back seat.