Chapter 6 #2
“Life is complicated. Family is complicated. That doesn’t give him permission to throw you to the wolves while he hides in the corner.” Lily’s bluntness cuts through my excuses. “I know you love him, Harl, but love isn’t always enough when someone can’t stand up to their family.”
My throat tightens with unwelcome emotion. “He’s just trying to keep the peace temporarily. Once we’re married—”
“Once you’re married, what? His parents will magically respect your boundaries?
Skyler will suddenly grow a spine? The Thompson family dynamics will transform because you signed a piece of paper?
” Her voice softens, seeing my expression.
“Marriage doesn’t fix these problems, Harley. It just makes them legally binding.”
I stare at my half-empty mug, watching the remaining coffee grow cold. The truth is, I’ve had these same thoughts in the dark hours of the night when Skyler’s whispered apologies and promises feel increasingly empty. But admitting it aloud feels like betrayal.
“Sometimes love is just the beginning, not the whole solution,” she continues. “He needs to love you enough to choose you—your needs, your dignity—over his parents’ approval.”
A memory surfaces of Skyler and me, lying in our bed in our apartment, planning our future. How certain I felt then. How completely I trusted that our love was enough to overcome any obstacle. How na?ve that certainty seems after just one week in the Thompson mansion.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “Leave him because his mother reorganizes my sweaters? Break off our engagement because his father is condescending?”
“No.” Lily squeezes my hand. “But maybe have a real conversation about what your future looks like if nothing changes. About whether you can spend the next thirty years as the outsider in your own family. About whether love without respect is enough.”
The café seems suddenly too loud, too bright. Reality intruding on the comfort I sought here.
“I need to think,” I say, my voice small against the clatter of dishes and conversation.
Lily glances at her watch and sighs. “And I have to get back to work. My break ended ten minutes ago.” She hesitates, clearly reluctant to end the conversation here. “Promise me something?”
“What?”
“Call me. If things get worse. If you need to talk. If you just need a break from Thompson Manor.” Her eyes search mine. “Promise you won’t suffer in silence like some martyr to love.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
“I’m serious, Harley.” All trace of humor vanishes from her face. “They’re trying to make you feel small. Don’t let them.”
We stand, gathering our things. Lily pulls me into a fierce hug, her grip almost painful in its intensity.
“I love you,” she whispers against my hair. “And I love Skyler, too. But I hate what his family is doing to both of you.”
I cling to her for a moment, drawing strength from her certainty, her unwavering loyalty. “I’ll call you,” I promise. “If it gets worse. Or if I just need to remember who I am.”
Lily pulls back, studying my face with a sister’s unflinching scrutiny. “Good. Because I’m not about to let Harley Matthews disappear into Harley Thompson, social accessory.”
She says it lightly, but the fear beneath her words mirrors my own unspoken dread. That the woman I am might not survive the woman the Thompsons expect me to become.
We part outside the café, Lily heading back to her graphic design studio, me toward the bus that will take me back to Lake Forest. Back to pristine gardens and judgment disguised as hospitality. Back to the man I love and the family that comes with him.
Lily’s words follow me, echoing with each step. Love isn’t always enough when someone can’t stand up to their family.
I hope she’s wrong, but I fear she’s right.
I glance at my watch and realize I’ve been here longer than planned. Elaine expects me back for some charity committee meeting she’s insisted I attend “to get a feel for Thompson family obligations.” The thought makes my stomach clench.
I’m late. The Thompson estate looms ahead of me like a judgment, with perfect angles and manicured hedges that seem to whisper, “You don’t belong here” with every rustling leaf.
My sensible flats slap against the cobblestone pathway as I check my watch for the fifth time in two minutes.
Fifteen minutes late for Elaine Thompson’s precious charity committee meeting.
Perfect. Just perfect. Nothing says “I’m worthy of your son” like disrespecting the Thompson matriarch’s rigorous schedule.
Nothing qualifies as an acceptable excuse in Elaine’s world.
I could have been talking a teenage girl off the metaphorical ledge, and it would still register as an inconvenience rather than a necessity.
Social work isn’t real work to people like the Thompsons, it’s what people do when they lack the ambition for law or medicine.
I reach for the polished brass doorknob, my reflection distorted across its surface. With a surge of determination, I twist it and push the heavy door open with more force than necessary.
The impact is immediate. A collision of bodies, a shocked gasp, and then—
Splatter.
Red wine. Everywhere.
Time slows as I watch the crystal glasses tumble from the silver tray, each one seeming to hang in the air for an excruciating moment before shattering against the marble entryway.
But worse than the broken crystal is the Cabernet now spreading across Elaine Thompson’s cream-colored designer dress like a bloodstain.
“Oh my God.” My hands hover uselessly in the air between us. “I am so sorry.”
Elaine doesn’t scream, doesn’t curse—that would be too common, too revealing. Instead, she goes perfectly still, her face a mask of practiced composure that somehow communicates more rage than any shouting match could.
“Harley.” My name in her mouth sounds gross.
The murmur of conversation from the dining room goes silent. I feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing against the back of my neck.
“I was rushing, I didn’t—I should have knocked, I—” The words tumble out like the wine still dripping from her hemline to the floor.
Elaine looks down at her ruined dress, then at the shattered crystal scattered across her imported marble.
“Well.” She smooths an imaginary wrinkle from the part of her dress not soaked in wine. “I suppose accidents happen…though some of us are more prone to them than others.”
Heat crawls up my neck. The suggestion hangs in the air between us. This isn’t just about wine; it’s about me. My presence in her son’s life. The unspoken question: Isn’t Skyler’s involvement with me just another unfortunate accident?
“Let me help clean this up.” I step forward, my shoe crunching on broken glass. “And I can absolutely pay for your dress to be cleaned, or replaced if—”
“Oh, honey.” Elaine’s laugh is like ice cracking. “We both know a social worker’s salary can’t afford such things.”
The casual cruelty of her assessment lands like a slap. She’s not wrong about the cost, but the deliberate reminder makes my stomach clench.
I swallow hard, willing my voice not to betray me. “I’d still like to try.”
Her eyes flick over me, assessing and dismissing in the same moment. “How admirable, but unnecessary.” She carefully steps around the puddle of wine. “Marta will handle this. The committee is waiting in the dining room. Try not to bring any more disruptions.”
She glides away to change, wine-stained but somehow still imperious, leaving me alone with the mess I’ve created. A metaphor so obvious it would be laughable if I weren’t the punchline.
A woman in a black uniform—Marta—appears with a mop and dustpan, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as she begins cleaning. I want to help her, but something tells me that would only make things worse.
I close my eyes briefly, centering myself the way I teach my clients to. This isn’t about me; this is about Elaine establishing dominance. I refuse to let her win.
With a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and cautiously step around the wet floor. The dining room awaits, no doubt full of Elaine’s carefully selected committee members. Women cut from the same expensive cloth as her.
The worst part? A tiny voice inside me wonders if Elaine is right. Am I just a temporary disruption in Skyler’s carefully plotted life path? A wine stain that will eventually be removed.
I push the thought away. Skyler loves me, and I love him. That has to be enough.
Even if it means walking into a room full of wolves in pearls who’ve just heard me break their pack leader’s favorite crystal.
The formal dining room sits seven women in tasteful designer outfits, who pause their conversations to stare at me.
Their jewelry catches the light—wedding rings with diamonds the size of small asteroids, tennis bracelets that could choke a horse.
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile.
The wine stain incident has clearly preceded me; their perfectly made-up faces can’t quite hide their curiosity about the woman who had the audacity to ruin Elaine Thompson’s Valentino.
“Ladies,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
A woman with silver hair sculpted into an architectural masterpiece gives me a cool once-over. “You must be Skyler’s…girlfriend.”
The pause before “girlfriend” might as well be a paragraph of commentary.
“Harley,” I offer, stepping further into the lion’s den. “Harley Matthews.”
The air smells of expensive perfume and judgment. I stand awkwardly, unsure where to sit in this clearly established pecking order.
I hate this.
A younger woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes gestures to an empty chair. “We saved you a seat. Right here by me.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Veronica. Charity committee treasurer, and Elaine’s second cousin.”
Of course she is. The Thompsons collect family connections like normal people collect coffee mugs.