Chapter 6
Mary lifts her wine glass with the precision of a woman who’s spent decades perfecting the gesture.
Light fractures through crystal, casting tiny rainbows across the tablecloth.
It’s delicate, beautiful, and as cold as her smile.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even glance toward my end of the table.
Her eyes lock on Cillian as if he’s the only person worth acknowledging.
The rest of us—Arthur, Bea, the silent servers hovering in shadows—we’re just supporting characters in the Mary and Cillian show.
And I’m hardly even that. I’m the unwelcome plot twist she’s determined to edit out.
“To tradition,” Mary announces, her voice carrying effortlessly down the fifteen feet of mahogany separating us. The emerald silk of her sleeve catches the light as she raises her glass higher, turning her wrist just so. “And to realizing that new things aren’t always better.”
The barb flies across the table and lands exactly where she intended—right in my chest. Her eyes never leave Cillian’s face, but the message is unmistakable. New things. Me. The interloper in red.
Still, I don’t flinch. I don’t react. I simply lift my own glass with steady fingers. The crystal catches light differently at my end of the table. Warmer.
Servers materialize from the shadows, placing the next course before each of us.
“The quail is from our own estate,” Mary announces. “Arthur has been cultivating the woodland specifically to encourage nesting. Haven’t you, dear?”
Arthur nods without enthusiasm. “Three years now.”
“Bea was just saying last week how much she’s missed Arthur’s quail. Weren’t you, dear?” the Matriarch continues.
Bea’s smile tightens at the corners. “Mhm.”
I cut into my quail, the knife sliding through tender flesh with minimal resistance.
The meat is undeniably perfect—seasoned precisely, cooked to the exact moment between tenderness and texture.
I place a small bite in my mouth and taste.
.. nothing. Not because the food lacks flavor, but because my senses are too preoccupied with the emotional currents in the room to register anything else.
“Remember that Christmas in Aspen, Cillian?” Mary continues, leaning slightly toward her son. “When the chef at that little bistro tried to convince us his quail was better than ours? You were so diplomatic about it.”
Cillian takes a slow sip of water before responding. “That was a long time ago, Mother.”
“Not so very long,” she counters, her smile unwavering. “Bea wore that cream cashmere set I gave her. The one with the fox fur trim.”
“I donated those pieces,” she says softly. “To that charity auction last year.”
“Which charity?” I ask, eager to veer the conversation.
Bea opens her mouth, but Mary beats her to it. “I’m sure it went to a good cause. Speaking of charity, Cillian, Eleanor Vaughn was asking about you for the hospital board. They’re looking for new blood, and your financial expertise would be—”
“Star just completed a series of paintings for the children’s cancer ward at Mount Sinai,” Cillian interrupts. “They’re installing them next month.”
“How community-minded,” she says, the pause calculated to diminish. “Arthur, did you mention to Cillian the new partnership opportunity with the Hargrove firm? The senior partner’s son was asking about him specifically.”
Arthur looks up from his methodical dissection of the quail. “I believe Cillian is quite satisfied with his current position,” he says mildly. “Star, Cillian mentioned you have a gallery showing coming up in the spring?”
The direct question clearly irritates Mary. Her lips thin to a precise line, like a pencil stroke drawn by a frustrated artist.
“February,” I answer, my voice clear and steady in the sudden hush. “At the Klein Gallery in Chelsea.”
“The Klein?” Mary interjects before her husband can respond, her tone suggesting she’s never heard of it despite the gallery’s renowned reputation. “Is that one of those experimental spaces? With the graffiti and such?”
“It’s one of the top contemporary galleries in the city, Mother,” Cillian says, setting down his fork with deliberate motion. “Star’s work was selected from over three hundred submissions.”
If I was bitchy I’d say something like, “Now Cillian darling, sophisticated art isn’t everyone’s taste.”
Mary takes a precise sip of wine, her lipstick leaving a perfect crescent on the crystal rim. “How interesting that they’d choose such unconventional subjects. Though I suppose there’s always an audience for the unusual.”
She hasn’t seen my work. Hasn’t asked about it. Hasn’t shown the slightest interest in what I create or who I am. Her dismissal is based entirely on the fact that I exist in her son’s life.
I meet Cillian’s eyes across the distance. His mouth quirks slightly at one corner, a private smile meant only for me. One that says, “Can you believe her?”
In that small gesture, the fifteen feet of mahogany separating us collapses. The physical distance remains, but the emotional chasm narrows. We’re still connected, still united, still a team despite Mary’s elaborate staging.
“I’m also working on a charity project at the Children’s Hospital,” I offer, trying to restart the interrupted conversation from earlier.
Bea weakly smiles, Cillian beams, and Arthur nods, but Mary asks, “More wine?” to a hovering server. Her eyes move around the table, touching briefly on Arthur, lingering on Bea, resting on Cillian. They slide over my place setting as if it’s empty.
But I’m still here. Still watching. Still wearing red in a sea of emerald.
The fear I glimpsed earlier flickers beneath her composure with each deviation from her script, each moment where reality refuses to conform to her vision.
Fear makes people predictable. But it also makes them dangerous.
I take another sip of the excellent wine and prepare for what comes next.
I’ve had enough. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity as Mary launches into yet another story about Cillian’s childhood—one where Bea features prominently despite not being there.
My fork settles against the fine china with a soft clink that somehow pierces her monologue.
The sound is small but deliberate, like the period at the end of a sentence I’ve been crafting in my mind throughout this interminable dinner.
Fifteen minutes of watching Mary rewrite history, fifteen feet of mahogany separating me from the truth.
I’m done being a spectator at my own execution.
I place my napkin beside my plate with measured care. The red of my dress feels suddenly brighter against the white linen, a visual declaration of my refusal to fade.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice carrying clearly across the dining room. Not loud, not confrontational, just present. Undeniable.
Mary pauses mid-sentence, her expression registering brief confusion at the interruption from the far end of her carefully orchestrated tableau. She doesn’t quite look at me directly, her gaze landing somewhere near my shoulder instead.
“Yes?” she says, the single syllable dripping with impatience.
I straighten in my chair, leaning forward just enough to establish presence without appearing aggressive. “I’d like to respond to your toast,” I say.
Now she looks at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. Arthur’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Bea freezes with her water glass halfway to her lips. Cillian’s eyes crinkle at the corner in a way of saying, “You got this, babe.” The servers hovering at the periphery seem to collectively hold their breath.
“I think we’ve moved well past the toast,” Mary says with a dismissive wave. “Now, as I was saying about Cillian’s graduation—”
“Tradition is lovely, Mrs. Brown,” I continue steadily, refusing to be sidelined, “but the present is where we actually live. And Cillian is very happy in the present.”
“Extremely,” Cillian interjects.
The room hushes. Scrape of cutlery halts, even breathing seems collectively paused.
Red flush rises from Mary’s neck to her cheeks. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass until her knuckles mirror the white tablecloth beneath them. For a moment, I think the crystal might shatter in her grip.
“And what would you know about my son’s happiness,” she snaps, even though Cillian just agreed with me, “compared to thirty years of history?”
The question cracks across the room. There’s no pretense now, no veneer of politeness. Just Mary’s raw fear and anger, exposed for all to see.
I hear movement beside me—the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back, footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. Cillian appears at my side, his presence solid and warm as he places a hand against my back. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t insert himself between us. He simply stands beside me in unification.
Mary’s eyes widen, tracking her son’s deliberate movement. Hurt flickers across her features before her expression hardens again.
“Cillian, darling,” she says, her voice recalibrating artificially lightly, “there’s no need to cause a scene.”
“I know the Cillian who exists now,” I say calmly, drawing her attention back to me.
“Not the version from your photo albums or the one you’ve brought to your dinner parties.
I know the man who sings off-key in the shower and works until three a.m. when he’s solving a problem.
The one who sketches building designs on napkins when he thinks no one’s looking. ”
Cillian’s hand presses more firmly against my back, a pulse of warmth that travels through my spine. Encouragement. Support. Pride.
“I know the man who argued with his contractor for two hours because they wanted to cut corners on affordable housing materials,” I continue. “The one who keeps a journal of ideas to make the city more livable for people who can’t afford penthouse views.”
Mary’s lips part slightly, words failing her for perhaps the first time since I’ve met her. Her gaze flicks to Cillian, searching his face for denial, for distance, for any sign that I’m fabricating intimacy that doesn’t exist.
She finds none.
“These are just phases,” she manages finally, recovering her voice but not her composure. “Rebellions. Every man goes through them. When he’s ready to settle down properly—”
“I am settled,” Cillian interrupts. “With Star.”
Two words. Simple. Definitive. The hand at my back doesn’t move, doesn’t tremble, doesn’t retreat.
Mary’s perfect mask slips further, revealing the frightened woman beneath. Her eyes dart between us.
“You can’t possibly know what you want,” she says, addressing Cillian directly now. “Not after everything we’ve built, everything we’ve planned. The family legacy—”
“Is mine to continue as I choose,” Cillian finishes. His voice remains calm, though I feel the tension in his body through the contact at my back.
Across the table, Arthur crunches his napkin. “Mary,” he says quietly, “This isn’t the time or place.”
“When is the time, Arthur?” Mary demands, turning her frustration on her husband. “When our son has thrown away everything we’ve built for him? When he’s abandoned the path we’ve sacrificed to create?”
The fear beneath her anger is nakedly visible now—not fear of me specifically, but of change, of loss, of a future that doesn’t match the one she’s spent decades imagining.
“No one is abandoning anything,” I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the confrontation. “Cillian honors your family every day through his work, his values, his integrity. He’s here isn’t he? But he deserves to build his own life, not live the one scripted for him.”
Mary’s eyes snap back to me, narrowing with renewed focus. “And I suppose you think you’re part of that life? A temporary distraction that he’ll outgrow once the novelty wears off?”
The barb is meant to wound, to make me doubt, to drive a wedge of insecurity between Cillian and me. Six months ago, it might have landed. Might have fed the quiet fears that sometimes whisper to me in the dark—that I’m not enough, not right, not the kind of woman who belongs in Cillian’s world.
But not anymore. Not after watching Mary’s desperate performance all evening, her frantic attempts to resurrect a relationship that never truly existed outside her imagination.
“I think that’s for Cillian to decide,” I answer. “Not you. Not me. Him.”
I understand why Cillian has largely remained quiet.
Aside from gray rocking his mother, he’s shown strength in silence and allowed me to fight my own battles.
He’s said, “you’re here, and you’re enough, and you don’t have to take this.
I haven’t engaged, and you don’t have to either. ” I appreciate it. It’s worked for us.
I turn slightly, meeting his eyes directly for the first time since he came to stand beside me.
The warmth I find there steadies me—the same warmth that drew me to him at that gallery opening, that kept me talking to him for hours over coffee afterward, that makes our mismatched apartment feel like the only home I’ve ever truly wanted.
Mary gasps. “This is absurd,” she announces, rising from her chair with rigid dignity. “I’ve opened my home to you, included you in our family traditions, and this is how you repay my hospitality? By undermining me at my own table?”
The accusation hangs in the air.