5. Adrian
— ? —
Adrian
Vivienne Lockhart’s home is a monument to the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to announce itself - it simply is, and you’re expected to be impressed.
The chandeliers are original Gilded Age, dripping crystal that catches the candlelight and throws it across silk wallpaper that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
The dining table seats thirty but tonight holds only twelve - the inner circle, as Vivienne calls it.
Old money. Older grudges. The kind of people who smile at you while counting the threads in your suit.
I fucking hate these dinners.
I arrive before Nina, as planned. She texted twenty minutes ago - running late, ten minutes, I promise, don’t let Vivienne eat you alive - and I told her I’d make excuses.
What I didn’t tell her is that I’m grateful for the buffer.
Grateful for time to compose my face into something that doesn’t look like a man whose marriage is unraveling by the hour.
“Adrian, darling.” Vivienne materializes at my elbow before I’ve made it three steps into the foyer. She’s wearing something silver and clinging, her hair swept up to show off diamonds that probably have names. “You’re early. How absolutely delightful.”
“Vivienne.” I accept the air-kiss she presses near my cheek, trying not to flinch at her perfume - something expensive and suffocating, like walking into a department store and drowning. “You look lovely, as always.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She waves a manicured hand, but her smile sharpens. “Though not, I notice, to your wife’s side. Where is our dear Nina this evening?”
“Running behind. She sends her apologies.”
“Does she?” Vivienne’s eyebrow arches delicately. “How unlike her. Nina’s usually so... punctual.”
The pause before “punctual” is deliberate. Everything Vivienne does is deliberate. She’s been circling my marriage like a shark since the day I married someone who wasn’t her, and she can smell blood in the water from a mile away.
“Traffic,” I say smoothly. “You know how the season is.”
“Mmm.” She sips her champagne, watching me over the rim with eyes that see too much. “Well, come in, come in. I’ll introduce you to the Hendersons - they’re new, they’re boring, but their money is very old. You’ll find things to discuss.”
She glides away, leading me into the parlor where the pre-dinner drinks are being served, and I feel her assessment like a physical weight on my back.
She knows, I think. She knows something’s wrong.
But then, Vivienne always knows. It’s her particular gift - sniffing out weakness and exploiting it with surgical precision. She wanted me once, back when we were teenagers playing at adulthood. She’s never forgiven me for choosing someone else.
***
The parlor is already half-full when we enter, clusters of Newport’s finest gathered in careful configurations.
I spot my mother near the fireplace, deep in conversation with Harold Pemberton - a widower she’s been circling for years, though she’d never admit it.
She catches my eye, offers a small nod of acknowledgment, then returns to her conversation.
No warmth. No maternal concern. Just assessment, same as always.
“Adrian Moretti.” A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and I turn to find Richard Lockhart - Vivienne’s husband, her trophy, her most expensive accessory. He’s red-faced and cheerful, three drinks deep already by the look of him. “Good to see you, good to see you. Where’s that beautiful wife of yours?”
“On her way.”
“Excellent, excellent. Vivienne’s been wanting to catch up with her. Something about the auxiliary committee?” He waves vaguely. “Women’s business. I don’t pretend to understand it.”
“Neither do I,” I lie.
I understand perfectly. The auxiliary committee is Vivienne’s fiefdom, her personal platform for rewarding friends and punishing enemies. If she wants to “catch up” with Nina, it’s because she’s planning something.
“Drink?” Richard gestures toward a passing server. “The bourbon’s excellent - brought it back from Kentucky myself.”
“Please.”
I accept a glass I don’t want and let Richard drone on about his whiskey collection while I scan the room, tracking threats and alliances the way I was raised to do.
The Hendersons are huddled near the window, clearly intimidated.
The Ashfords are holding court by the bar, surrounded by sycophants. And there, just entering the parlor-
Nina.
She’s wearing the green dress - the one that makes her eyes glow, the one I bought her for our anniversary three years ago. Her hair is swept up, exposing the long line of her neck, and she’s wearing the sapphire earrings from Barcelona that don’t match anything but somehow match everything.
She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful. But tonight, there’s something fragile in her face that makes my chest ache.
And underneath the ache, lower and meaner, the wanting.
The green dress fits her the way my hands do, and I know exactly what the zipper sounds like coming down, and I hate that I’m thinking about it now, in this room, with a counting file open in the back of my skull.
You don’t get to want her and audit her at the same time, I tell myself.
Pick one. I don’t pick. I take another drink instead.
Our eyes meet across the room. She offers a small smile - apologetic, tired - and I watch her compose herself before wading into the social gauntlet.
“There she is,” Richard booms. “Nina! Over here, my dear, we’ve been waiting for you!”
Nina crosses to us, accepting Richard’s embrace with practiced grace. “Richard. I’m so sorry I’m late - the traffic was absolutely-”
“No need, no need. You’re here now, that’s what matters.” He releases her and gestures expansively. “I was just telling Adrian about this incredible bourbon. You must try some.”
“I’d love to, but-” She touches her stomach briefly, unconsciously. “I’m not drinking tonight. Stomach’s been off.”
Stomach’s been off. The same excuse. The same gesture. The same careful avoidance of alcohol.
I watch her, cataloging every detail. The way she’s standing with her weight shifted back, one hand hovering near her middle. The way she accepted water from a passing server without hesitation. The way her throat works between sentences, like every swallow is a negotiation.
She’s pregnant, I think again, with absolute certainty. She’s pregnant and she hasn’t told me.
The question is why.
***
“Nina, darling!” Vivienne swoops in before I can say anything, linking her arm through Nina’s with proprietary familiarity. “You look positively radiant. Come, you must tell me everything. We’ve seen so little of you at the auxiliary meetings lately.”
“I’ve been busy,” Nina says carefully. “Personal obligations.”
“So I’ve heard.” Vivienne steers her toward the bar, throwing a glance back at me - calculating, predatory. “We have so much to catch up on.”
I watch them go, unease coiling in my stomach.
“She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” Richard says cheerfully, completely oblivious. “Vivienne, I mean. Keeps track of everyone in town like it’s her job.” He chuckles. “I suppose it is her job, in a way. Social secretary to the entire goddamn city.”
“Mmm.”
“Another drink?”
“Please.”
I accept a second bourbon and watch Vivienne work my wife like a suspect in an interrogation - all smiles and gentle questions, every answer filed away for later use. Nina’s shoulders are tight, her smile fixed, her hands clutching her water glass like a weapon.
Whatever Vivienne is saying, it’s not friendly.
***
Dinner is a minefield.
The seating arrangement is classic Vivienne - I’m at one end of the table, Nina at the other, separated by a dozen people and a carefully orchestrated buffer zone. I spend the soup course making small talk with Eleanor Henderson while watching Nina navigate Vivienne’s assault from across the room.
By the time the salad arrives, I’ve lost the thread of whatever Eleanor is saying. I’m too focused on Nina - the way her smile keeps slipping, the way she’s gripping her fork like she wants to stab someone, the way her eyes keep finding mine with an expression that screams help me.
“...don’t you think, Adrian?”
“Hmm?” I drag my attention back to Eleanor. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I was saying how difficult it must be, having such a demanding career. You must hardly see your wife.”
The observation lands wrong, and I see Eleanor realize it - her cheeks flush, her eyes dart away.
“We manage,” I say flatly.
“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply-”
“Eleanor.” Her husband’s hand finds her arm, a gentle warning. “Perhaps we should discuss the wine instead.”
The subject changes, but the damage is done. I can feel other guests glancing my way, sensing drama, filing away observations to dissect later.
They know, I think. The whole goddamn town knows something’s wrong.
And somewhere across the room, Vivienne is smiling.
***
Halfway through the fish course, Nina excuses herself.
“Powder room,” she murmurs to the table, rising with careful grace. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”
She’s gone before I can catch her eye, disappearing down the hallway toward the back of the house. I watch her go, calculating the risks of following her versus staying put.
I stay put. Following your wife to the bathroom at a dinner party is the kind of thing people notice. The kind of thing that gets whispered about for weeks.
But I watch the hallway. And I see my mother rise a moment later, offering the table a polished smile.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says. “I need to freshen up.”
My blood goes cold.
Evelyn Moretti doesn’t “freshen up.” Evelyn Moretti holds her bladder through three-hour charity auctions and never breaks a sweat. If she’s following Nina to the powder room, it’s not to check her lipstick.
It’s to deliver a message.
***
Nina