Chapter 7 #2
I drop my eyes to my plate. The porcelain is artfully arranged with the second course: veal tenderloin, rosemary butter, a drizzle of wine sauce. It looks perfect. Untouched. I can't stomach a single bite. I push a cherry tomato to the edge of the plate and watch the smear of red it leaves behind.
Xavier murmurs something to his brother, feigning interest in talk of business or wine—whatever safe topic he can cling to.
He doesn’t notice that I’m watching him now.
I see the tension in his shoulders he thinks he’s hiding, the way his fingers drum once against the table before going still.
Little tells. He’s nervous. Fear has a scent, and I swear I can smell it on him.
Another trill of laughter rises from Guinevere's end of the table, crystal-bright and a touch too fueled by champagne.
She dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and beams at Isabel.
"Tell me, darling, will you be staying long this time?
We've missed you so." Her tone is warm, almost adoring.
"You mustn't run off again like you did before. "
A jovial uncle down the way chimes in, wagging a finger. "Unless our Isa needed a little break from this crazy family!" A few people laugh. I catch élise rolling her eyes subtly at the old man and it almost makes me smile.
Isabel tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, offering a polite smile. "I'm not sure yet. There are...many things to figure out now."
Guinevere clucks softly. "Nonsense. We all knew why you left, chérie." She raises her nearly empty glass and winks conspiratorially. "The poor girl was in love."
The words land like a grenade in the center of the table. I feel them hit me in the chest, a concussive force that nearly knocks the air from my lungs. The genteel clinking of silverware dies. A hush falls so sudden and heavy, it's like the whole room holds its breath.
Alejandro’s brows draw together. “Guinevere,” he says under his breath, a warning threaded through his voice. “That’s enough.”
Guinevere waves him off, tipsy and oblivious—or simply cruel in her glee.
“Oh, come now. I’m only teasing. It was ages ago.
” She turns her glittering gaze pointedly to me, her head tilting.
“You understand, don’t you, Yara? Young love and all that drama.
Our Xavier was positively unbearable that summer.
Mon Dieu, he moped for weeks after she left. We thought he’d never recover.”
I forget how to breathe.
Over twenty pairs of eyes dart between me, my husband, and the woman in red. My pulse pounds in my ears like the bell before the first round.
He really did lie to me.
She isn’t his cousin.
She’s his fucking ex.
He spent our wedding anniversary with her while I sat home alone, waiting until my legs went numb and the food turned cold—while I was becoming an empty shell, still clinging to hope: to the dream of a child that never came, to the life we promised each other would be enough .
I questioned my own sanity, convinced I was imagining the distance while he was already gone.
How fucking bleak.
I clench my jaw until my teeth ache.
Xavier goes rigid, every muscle in his body locking tight. His jaw ticks. His hand tightens around his wine glass until his knuckles whiten. A faint clink sounds as his fork slips from his other hand and falls onto the plate.
“Mamá,” he warns. “ ?a suffit.” That’s enough.
The temperature in the room plummets even more. Lucien clears his throat, looking like he very much wishes he could sink under the table. élise's eyes are wide with alarm. Alejandro opens his mouth as if to interject, but no one gets a chance.
Guinevere just laughs, reaching for the champagne. "Relax, mon chéri. It was years before he even met his lovely wife." She says lovely wife as if it's an afterthought, tossing me a thin smile down the table.
I have become a ghost. A phantom. I can't feel the chair beneath me or the silk of my dress against my skin.
My vision tunnels on Xavier and Isabel. On Xavier's stricken face and Isabel's lowered, embarrassed gaze.
All the tiny pieces click into place with sickening clarity.
This isn't just some old love the family likes to tease about.
This is the girl who shattered his heart once.
The girl he never got over.
Lucien, likely trying to salvage the mood, flashes me a grin. “Didn’t you know, belle-s?ur? Isa and Xavier were the romance du siècle. We all thought they’d end up together. Coup de foudre and all that.”
"Lucien," Xavier snaps, his tone a lethal warning. I barely recognize the harshness in his voice. His eyes flick to me, wide with panic now. " Tais-toi." Shut up.
Alejandro clears his throat loudly and reaches over to grip his wife’s shoulder. “Ya basta. Enough, everyone.” His cheeks have gone ruddy.
The plate in front of me blurs, the colors of the meal bleeding together.
I’m shaking. My hands are clenched in my lap so hard my nails bite into my palms.
A small, sane voice whispers that all these staring faces can see my humiliation, that I should hold it together. But it’s drowned out by the roar of blood, hurt, and betrayal in my ears.
“Enough?”
My voice trembles. The word escapes so softly it’s almost lost in the vast dining hall. I don’t even know who I’m addressing.
I press my napkin to my mouth, a strangled sound rising in my throat.
It starts as a giggle. Thin, high, and entirely out of place.
Someone down the table gasps. I hear élise whisper my name, unsure. Concerned.
But I can’t stop.
The sound grows, warping into something bitter. It bursts out of me before I can contain it.
I'm dimly aware of all the horrified eyes fixed on me as I double over, a peal of laughter ripping out of my chest that sounds wild even to me.
My hand slaps the table and I clutch the edge of it to keep myself upright as wave after wave of hysteria pours out.
Crystal glasses tremble with the vibration, cutleries clatter against plates.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes from the force of it. I laugh until my ribs ache, until the sound that was almost merry turns ragged and teeters on the verge of sobbing.
Gradually, the laughter ebbs, choking off into silence.
I'm left panting. My shoulders shake as I inhale, trying to steady myself.
I wipe under my eye with my thumb, careful not to smudge whatever remains of my dignity along with my mascara.
When I lift my head, I find everyone frozen in place, staring at me as if I've lost my mind.
Perhaps I have.
I straighten with ease, smoothing my napkin with trembling fingers and then laying it neatly beside my untouched plate. A stray chuckle still bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down and force a pleasant, serene smile onto my face.
“Well,” I fold my hands together, “what a delightful dinner conversation. The things one learns at supper, mm?”
My voice is almost conversational, but it carries a razor edge that slices through the air.
No one speaks.
I push back my chair, the wooden legs screeching against the marble floor. I rise and reach for my beaded clutch beside my plate. My movements are calm, though my hands tremble with adrenaline.
Xavier lurches to his feet, face ashen, eyes wide with alarm. “Yara,” he says urgently. “Yara, wait—”
I hold up a hand. The gesture stops him in his tracks. Our eyes lock through the glow of candlelight. I see my husband—the man I have loved for years—standing there with desperation written all over his face. And I see the truth in the sag of his shoulders and the guilt swimming in his eyes.
All these weeks. The late meetings. The distant stares. The tension I could never name.
I thought he was afraid of losing a big project. Busy with something at work. Afraid of losing me.
But I was wrong.
He was afraid of being found out.
A strange calm washes over me. My tears have dried. My heart feels cold and hard in my chest. I fix Xavier with a steady, gentle look and curl my lips into a bitter facsimile of a smile.
“Don’t stop on my account,” My voice cuts through the hush with icy clarity. I nod toward Isabel, who sits as still as a statue, her eyes shiny with unshed tears and fixed on the tablecloth. “Your cousin looks positively famished.”
Xavier reels back as if I’d slapped him. His tan complexion blanches. Isabel’s face crumples, a single tear spilling down her cheek at the word cousin . I almost start laughing again.
No one at the table breathes. A few seats away, Guinevere lets out a soft, shocked “Mon Dieu…” under her breath, and Alejandro mutters a curse.
I don’t care.
None of them matter anymore.
Clutch tucked under my arm, I turn on my heel. My head is high, my back straight—every inch the composed wife as I stride away from the table. Each step drives another nail into the coffin of this farce .
No one dares to stop me. Not even my supposed husband.
At the grand double doors of the dining hall, I pause, looking back over my shoulder.
What I see is a portrait of shock—faces turned toward me, mouths agape, eyes wide.
Xavier hasn’t moved, one hand half-extended as if reaching for me, his expression wrecked. Pleading.
Too late.
I offer them all a final, cold smile. “Bon appétit,” I say, my voice clear and steady.
Then I turn and walk out, letting the heavy doors swing shut behind me with a decisive thud. Leaving behind the golden glow of candles, the cloying scent of wine and indulgence, and the lingering stench of betrayal.