Chapter 6 #3
I breathe in, letting the sensations wash over me: perfume and cologne intermingling in the air, the distant shift from strings to piano as the musicians transition, the rich aroma of roast duck drifting in from the kitchens.
A pair of children dash between clusters of adults, escaping some distant nanny’s grasp, their polished shoes skittering on the marble. Nearby, I catch snippets of conversation—someone boasting about a new yacht club in Nice, another complaining about traffic in Paris.
All around, the night hums with wealth and contentment.
I miss my family. I miss being known. My little sister, Althea, is back home in Greece with our yiayia, and it’s been ages since I last saw them.
They flew in for our wedding, and for weeks afterward, I swore I could still hear my yiayia’s voice echoing through the villa.
Bossing the caterers around in Greek, telling the florists they had no sense of proportion, and warning Xavier that if he ever made me cry, she’d haunt him with the full authority of every dead woman in our family.
Now it’s just phone calls. Sometimes video calls, when I’m brave enough. Lately, I haven’t been.
Yiayiá sees through everything. She’d take one look at my face and know something was wrong. Then she’d threaten to drag me back home to “fix” me. Her kind of therapy usually involves a shotgun, a target, or a punching bag.
I haven’t touched a punching bag since the accident.
I tell myself I’m past that life, that I don’t need to fight anymore. But sometimes my hands ache for the sting of impact, for the clean, violent certainty of it. Fighting was never just a career; it was the only language I spoke fluently, the only place I knew exactly who I was.
Now even the sight of a boxing ring makes my pulse stumble. I can’t step into one without feeling the ghost of that final blow crash through my ribs again.
Tonight, as I stand here smiling at people who’d rather see me break, I almost miss the sound of a fist meeting flesh.
Beneath the refined cheer, I sense something else. A quiet current running through it all. Every few minutes, Guinevere’s gaze flicks toward the main entrance. Others follow. They’re waiting. For what or whom, I’m not sure, but the anticipation is unmistakable if you know where to look.
Her smile is a touch too bright, her laughter a shade too quick. The only time it softens into something real is when she looks at the door. It’s the most animated I’ve seen my mother-in-law all night. Possibly the most alive I’ve seen her since I met her.
You’re imagining it , I chide myself. Maybe she’s always been this way, and I just didn’t see it. Or maybe I’m simply searching for cracks in their facade because I’m always on edge here.
Yet, I can’t shake the prickle of unease crawling along my skin. Even surrounded by noise and light and laughter, a chill settles deep in my bones.
As if something is about to happen.
I don’t have to wait long.
A sharp clack of heels echoes through the marble foyer, followed by the low murmur of staff greeting a late arrival.
The effect is instantaneous. A hush falls over the nearest guests as heads turn, subtle but unmistakable, toward the entrance.
The string quartet continues playing, but even the music seems to thin out.
Beside me, the aunt who’d been hounding me falls silent mid-sentence, her jaw slack. She leans in to whisper something to the woman at her elbow, eyes bright with the thrill of fresh gossip.
Curious, I lean just enough to see what has everyone so transfixed.
A tall figure appears through the arched doorway, and it’s as if a movie star has stepped into the room.
The newcomer is dressed in a long-sleeved crimson ensemble with a daring neckline. Silk, if the way it catches the light is anything to go by. It drapes her from throat to toe, a bold choice that draws every eye. Her blonde hair falls in artfully styled waves past her shoulders.
She’s beautiful in that effortless way that comes from old money, slender and graceful, with the kind of perfection that makes everyone else feel underdressed.
She pauses just beyond the threshold, lips curved in a poised smile as she takes in the crowd. There's a subtle hesitation to her stance, as if she wasn't entirely sure about coming and only just convinced herself to step inside.
Guinevere is at her side in an instant, beaming more radiantly than I knew she could. Alejandro follows close behind with a broad smile of his own.
“Ma chère, you made it!” Guinevere exclaims, clasping the young woman’s hands before drawing her in for a kiss on each cheek. “How are you holding up, querida? I’m so sorry about your father.”
Her father.
Is this the cousin Xavier spoke about?
“It’s been… hard,” the woman says, her voice soft, tinged with a Spanish accent.
Her gaze drops, but when she looks up again, her eyes meet mine across the room. Warm brown eyes, bright with unshed tears.
Something about them pulls at me.
Guinevere cups her shoulder, her expression softening. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing tonight. I’m here for you,” she says. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. We’ve all been beside ourselves waiting to see you.”
My shoulders stiffen. I can’t remember the last time I heard Guinevere sound so sincere. So warm. Certainly never toward me.
In the years I’ve been her daughter-in-law, her kindness has been polite at best, frosty at worst.
Seeing her fawn over this woman with open arms and a glowing smile shouldn’t sting. I know it shouldn’t. She’s family, after all.
But it does. It finds a place in me I thought I’d long since hardened.
My formidable mother-in-law is capable of affection, just not for me.
I look away, suddenly sure I’m intruding on a private reunion. Self-consciousness prickles along my spine. I’ve spent all night wallowing in my own problems, and here’s someone in real mourning. Someone who actually needs this family’s comfort.
And I’m jealous. Of her.
Shame scorches my face. I ease a step back, ready to slip away and find Xavier, needing something solid to anchor me.
Before I can move, I catch sight of my husband. He’s no longer beside his uncle. He stands a few paces from the bar, unnaturally still, like he drifted there without meaning to. The tumbler in his hand hangs suspended midair, forgotten.
And his eyes—
I know every nuance of my husband’s expressions. But whatever is on his face now, I’ve never seen it before.
Not once.
Xavier is staring at the woman in red like he’s seen a ghost.
Everything around me turns strangely unreal, the sounds of the party dissolving beneath the heavy thud of my heartbeat. I move toward him without thinking, slipping through a gap in the crowd until I’m at his side.
“Xavier?” I murmur.
He doesn’t react. His gaze stays fixed on the doorway. On her.
There’s shock in his eyes. But beneath it, a haunted look that makes my stomach drop .
She’s his cousin.
So why does it feel like I’m watching something I shouldn’t be seeing?
Guinevere's voice carries through the hall as she turns to the rest of the room.
“Everyone, you remember Isabel, of course,” she says brightly. “She’s just flown in from Madrid. It’s been such a terrible tragedy, losing her father. Please, give her your warmest welcome home.”
My eyes flick back to my husband. Xavier hasn’t moved. In the golden light of the chandeliers, the color has drained from his face, leaving him pale and shaken.
I reach out, my fingers unsteady as they touch his arm.
He flinches. Blinks. Then finally looks at me, like he’d forgotten I was here.
“Xavier,” I whisper, searching his face. “Who is…?”
The question dies on my tongue.
Who is she to you?
Why do you look like that?
Like you’ve just found something you thought was gone forever.
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. In that fractured second, I realize I have never seen my husband truly speechless until now.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts to breathe.
“Xavi,” Isabel calls from across the hall.
We both turn.
Even through the crowd, I swear I see her breath catch. Her lips part, that smooth composure faltering as they stare at each other.
There’s history in that look. Years and unsaid things strung tight between them. An ache.
A chill slithers through me. I feel horribly out of place, like this is their moment and I’m a bystander who wandered into the wrong scene. My hand falls from Xavier’s arm. He doesn’t even notice. His entire world has narrowed to the woman in the red dress. His cousin.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I can’t tear my gaze from him, from that stricken expression I’ve never seen on his face in seven years together. It hits me like a cold, sharp blade to the gut—the understanding of what I’m witnessing.
Whatever Xavier is looking at, it’s not his goddamn cousin.