2. Brittney
— ? —
Brittney
I have lived inside this gala for months.
Every sketch, every lighting test, every argument about whether black-and-gold was “too funereal” (it wasn’t; Elise just has boring taste) - all mine.
The architectural installations that make people gasp when they walk in?
Mine. The geometric shadows that turn the ballroom into something that actually feels alive? Mine.
This is the closest I’ve gotten to real design work since marrying into the Ross family. Elise calls it “party planning.” I call it architecture with a catering budget.
I’m adjusting a final installation - a suspended framework of black metal that casts patterns on the marble floor like light through cathedral windows - when I hear the click of expensive heels on marble.
Mikayla. Of course.
She stops dead in the middle of the ballroom, sweeps her phone across the room like she’s documenting a crime scene, and announces - loud enough for the florists, the servers, the lighting crew, and probably several neighboring buildings:
“Oh no. This looks like a funeral. Whoever is in charge needs to be fired. Immediately.”
The room freezes. I can feel every eye shift toward me, waiting to see what happens next.
I straighten slowly, setting down the level I was using to check the final installation.
“I’m in charge. And it’s black-tie. Black is the point.”
Her smile turns to a blade. “Of course you are, honey.”
Honey. Like I’m five years old and have drawn on the walls with crayon.
She’s wearing white, because of course she is - a cream dress that probably costs more than my car, designed specifically to stand out against the dark aesthetic I’ve spent months perfecting.
Her heels are higher than they were at the dinner party.
Her smile is sharper. Everything about her screams I’m here to take something from you.
“The geometric elements are very… aggressive,” she continues, gesturing at my installations with the air of someone who’s never had to justify their opinions to anyone. “Very… student project.”
Student project. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“It’s a deliberate contrast to the Ross foundation’s usual aesthetic,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Modern against classic. The board approved it.”
“The board approves a lot of things.” She takes a photo of the central installation, the one I’m most proud of, and frowns at her screen like it’s personally offended her. “Doesn’t mean they have taste.”
I excuse myself to the bathroom before I say something I can’t take back.
Forehead against cool tile.
The face in the mirror looks pale. Tight. Nothing like someone who’s just spent months building something beautiful.
“You’re fine,” I tell my reflection. “She’s testing you. Don’t let her win.”
My reflection does not look convinced.
I fix my lipstick. Straighten my shoulders. Remind myself that I’ve survived years of Elise Ross and I can survive one overdressed Oxford dropout with a god complex.
(Okay, I don’t know she’s a dropout yet. But I have suspicions. Nobody that smug is ever as qualified as they pretend to be.)
The bathroom door swings open behind me. Two women from the catering staff, talking in hushed voices that cut off the second they see me.
“Sorry, Mrs. Ross,” one of them says, and the way she says it - apologetic, pitying - tells me everything I need to know about what they’ve been overhearing.
I smile. Nod. Walk out with my head high because that’s what you do when you’re falling apart in public: you pretend you’re not.
Back out there. Smile on. Let’s go.
When I push through the service doors, the room has transformed.
And not in a good way.
My lighting: gone. My geometric installations: shoved aside. My carefully planned aesthetic: actively being dismantled by staff members who won’t meet my eyes.
Mikayla stands in the center of it all, wearing a headset that isn’t hers, barking orders like she’s been hired to save a sinking ship.
“The geometric pieces are too aggressive. Move them to storage. Replace with the classic arrangements from backup.”
She sees me and smiles.
“I’m sorry, honey. You looked so tired. Leave it to me.”
I feel my blood pressure spike in real time.
“This is my event. You don’t have the authority to change anything.”
“Oh, but I do.” She holds up her phone. A text chain with Elise’s name at the top, the messages too small to read from here but the intent crystal clear.
“Your mother-in-law asked me to step in. She was concerned about the optics.” Her voice drops to a fake whisper.
“Between us? She thinks you’re overwhelmed.
And honestly? Looking around?” She gestures at the chaos. “I kind of agree.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Here’s the thing: I have responses. Multiple. My brain has generated about fifteen of them in the last four seconds, ranging from professional (“Let me speak to Elise directly”) to unhinged (“I will end you and make it look like an accident”).
But the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth, and by the time I unstick them, Mikayla has already turned away to snap at another server.
The moment is gone. She’s won the round.
I hate that. I hate the delay. I hate that I always think of the perfect response thirty seconds too late.
Next time, I promise myself. Next time I’ll be faster.
But the “next time” comes sooner than I expect, and I’m no more ready for it.
Midway through my welcome speech - voice already shaky from watching my design get gutted - Mikayla glides onstage with a fresh champagne flute.
“Sorry, everyone! Couldn’t resist.” She laughs into the mic like we’re old friends sharing a joke. “Isn’t Brittney just doing such a wonderful job? Look at her up here, so determined. You can tell she put her whole heart into this.”
The room watches. I can see the confusion on some faces, the amusement on others. Shawn is near the front, and his expression is unreadable.
Pause. Smile. The room waits.
“You know, I have to say - I really admire how hard she tries. Some of us have things that come naturally, and some of us have to work a little harder to keep up.” She tilts her head, voice dripping with fake sympathy.
“And that’s okay! Not everyone’s brain works the same way.
Brittney’s always been so… scattered. But she pushes through! It’s inspiring, really.”
My lungs stop working.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t.
Another pause. Conspiratorial glance at the crowd.
“I actually made her a checklist for tonight. Color-coded. I know that helps people who are, you know-” she taps her temple and makes a little whoosh gesture “- a bit all over the place up here.”
Soft laughter. Uncomfortable, but still laughter.
I stand frozen, my speech forgotten in my hand, watching this woman dissect me in front of the entire ballroom with surgical precision.
“Give her a big hand! She’s earned a rest. I’ll take it from here.”
She smoothly takes the microphone from my numb fingers. The room applauds. Shawn’s laugh booms louder than anyone’s.
Scattered. All over the place. Needs a checklist. Can’t keep up.
Scattered is Elise’s word. She’s been sighing it at me for years, usually while I fixed something she broke. Hearing it come out of a stranger’s mouth, syllable for syllable, tells me exactly who’s been doing the briefing.
She’s found the exact words people have used to dismiss me my entire life and wrapped them in a bow of fake concern.
And the worst part - the absolute worst part - is that tiny voice in my head that whispers: Maybe she’s right. Maybe you ARE too scattered for this. Maybe everyone’s been thinking it and she just said it out loud.
I finish my speech on autopilot. The words come out. I don’t remember what they are. The applause sounds like it’s coming from underwater, and when I step off the stage, my heels feel unsteady on the polished floor.
The rest of the gala passes in a blur. Mikayla works the room like she owns it, touching arms and laughing at jokes and steering conversations with the ease of someone who’s never had to earn her place at the table.
I watch from the edges, refilling my champagne glass more often than I should, and wonder how many people are looking at me and thinking scattered.
In the car afterward, the silence has weight.
My hands shake against the steering wheel. Not from cold.
“You laughed.” My voice cracks. “In front of everyone. While she humiliated me.”
Shawn’s phone buzzes. He glances at it. Types something.
“Shawn. I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you.” He doesn’t look up. “Mikayla was being playful. It’s called networking. Not everyone is out to get you.”
“She called me scattered. She made a gesture like my brain doesn’t work. She took over MY speech.”
“You’re being sensitive.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “You always do this.”
He says it like a fact. Like my feelings are a recurring bug in the system he’s learned to work around.
“She literally tapped her head and made a whoosh sound while talking about me. In front of everyone.”
“It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“To you.” He finally looks at me, impatient. “Can we talk about this later? I’m exhausted.”
I pull over because my hands are shaking too hard to drive. The car jerks to a stop at the curb, and I grip the wheel so tight my knuckles go white.
Shawn doesn’t ask why. He’s already texting again.
He’s already moved on to the next screen. The conversation is over before I finished it.
For a second - just a second - I wonder if he’s right. If I’m overreacting. If everyone else saw something I was too sensitive to see.
Then I remember his laugh. How loud it was. How it had carried over everything.
No. I’m not crazy. I’m just the only one paying attention.
The next morning, before I’ve finished my first coffee, the elevator dings.
Elise glides in with Mikayla for “impromptu breakfast strategy.”
Mikayla is wearing one of Shawn’s old hoodies. It hits mid-thigh. She’s wearing nothing else visible.
She sees me see it.
And she smiles. Not mean. Not yet. Just… satisfied. Like a chess player who’s taken an important piece.
“I hope you don’t mind. I was freezing from the car.” She says it to me, but she’s looking at Shawn. “He always used to let me borrow this one back in school. Some things don’t change.”
I know that hoodie.
I know exactly how soft it is because I’ve worn it. After sex, usually. When Shawn would peel it off the bedroom floor and drape it over my shoulders because I was always cold after, and he thought it was adorable.
“You run so hot during,” he’d say, kissing my shoulder, “and then you turn into an icicle. It’s very confusing.”
I’d burrow into the fabric that smelled like him and feel… safe. Claimed. Like I belonged to someone who noticed the small things.
Now Mikayla is wearing it in my kitchen and my husband is calling her “Mi” and I’m supposed to smile and pour coffee like my skin isn’t crawling.
Stop thinking about it.
I don’t think about the hoodie or the way it used to smell like his cologne and my perfume mixed together, evidence of a closeness that apparently meant nothing.
Shawn doesn’t look up from his coffee. “Mi’s always cold. It’s a whole thing.”
Mi.
I make myself smile. Make myself pour coffee. Make myself act like my husband’s ex-something isn’t standing in my kitchen wearing his clothes and a smirk.
Later. I’ll process this later. When I have the bandwidth. When I can think straight.
Right now I just need to survive the morning.