Chapter 6 #3
I slip into the chair, hyperaware of my department store dress against the buttery leather seat.
The table is set with linen napkins monogrammed with the Thompson family crest, because apparently, that’s a thing people have.
Meanwhile, my fingers twitch with the urge to check if the price tag is still on my dress.
“So, you’re a social worker?” This comes from a woman with aggressively blonde hair and a pearl choker tight enough to restrict blood flow. “How rewarding that must be.”
What she means is: How poor that must make you.
“It is, actually,” I say, letting a genuine smile break through. “I specialize in adolescent crisis intervention with a subset of housing insecurity. It’s challenging, but the kids are worth every minute.”
Elaine glides in, somber-faced household staff following with fresh wine. She’s changed into a navy sheath dress.
“Ladies, I see you’ve met Harley,” she says, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Skyler’s current companion.”
Current. Like I’m a temporary condition that will eventually clear up.
“She works with troubled youth,” she continues, her tone suggesting I might be one myself. “She’s joining our fundraiser committee as part of the family’s inclusion initiatives.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m here because Skyler asked me to make an effort with his mother.
“We were just about to discuss the silent auction items,” says a woman whose cosmetic procedures have left her face in a permanent state of mild surprise.
But before we can dive into charitable matters, the door opens again.
And there she is.
I immediately recognize her from the photos I’ve seen—the ones Elaine “accidentally” leaves visible when I visit. Amanda Leigh Davis. Skyler’s ex-fiancée. The woman who, according to Elaine’s frequent reminders, was “perfect” for Skyler.
You know, after Amanda changed her entire self to fit the Thompson mold.
She’s even more intimidating in person. Tall, blonde, and polished to a high shine in a cream-colored suit that somehow looks both professional and effortlessly sexy. Her green eyes scan the room and land on me with laser precision.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone,” she says, her voice melodic and confident. “Court ran long.”
Of course, she’s a lawyer. Probably defending puppies and orphans pro bono when she’s not being genetically perfect.
“Amanda!” Elaine practically glows with delight. “We’re so pleased you could make it. You remember everyone, of course. And this is Harley Matthews, Skyler’s…friend.”
Friend. I’ve been downgraded in the last five minutes.
Amanda’s smile is practiced perfection as she extends a manicured hand toward me. “Harley! I’ve heard so much about you.”
I doubt that, unless “so much” means “the bare minimum Elaine was forced to acknowledge.”
“Likewise,” I respond, meeting her grip with equal pressure.
“How fortunate that you could join us,” Amanda continues, taking the seat directly opposite me. “I know how demanding social work can be. Skyler always admired people who choose purpose over profit.”
The casual mention of Skyler—the implied intimacy of knowing his thoughts and values—lands exactly as intended. A subtle reminder that she knew him first, knew him longer.
“Yes, Skyler’s very supportive of my work,” I reply, emphasizing the present tense. “He actually volunteers with some of our youth programs now.”
Amanda’s perfect eyebrows lift slightly. “Does he? That’s new. During our time together, he was so focused on the family business.”
Our time together. A verbal photograph placed deliberately on the table between us.
“As he should be,” Elaine says.
“People change,” I say with a shrug that I hope appears more casual than it feels. “It’s one of the things I love about him. He has a willingness to grow and try new things.”
“Speaking of Skyler”—Amanda leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to a confidential tone—“how is he handling the merger? He was so stressed about it when we last spoke.”
When we last spoke. When was that, exactly?
I maintain my smile while my brain races.
“He’s managing it brilliantly,” I say, though I have no idea if that’s true. “But we try not to bring work stress home. Life balance is important to us.”
“Oh, I remember trying that approach.” Amanda laughs lightly. “But you know how he gets when he’s deep in a project. Does he still work until three a.m. and forget to eat?”
The question hits like a dart. Yes, he does. And the fact that she knows this intimate detail about him—about our current life—makes my stomach tighten.
“Skyler’s work ethic is admirable,” I deflect, “but we’re finding better balance these days.”
“That’s wonderful. He always talked about wanting more balance someday. When the time was right.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, hoping to move the conversation to actual charity.
But it doesn’t work.
“How long have you two been together now?” she asks, twisting a delicate gold necklace between her fingers. I recognize it from photos—a gift from Skyler during their relationship.
“Three years,” I answer.
“Three years,” she repeats. “And already part of the charity committee. You must be special.”
Already?!
Before I can respond, she leans in again, voice honeyed with false concern. “Has he taken you to the lake house yet? Summer at the Thompson retreat is magical. Some of our most precious moments were there.”
Each question is a carefully placed landmine. Each response reveals how much she still knows about Skyler’s life, how much access she still has to his world, and possibly to him.
“We’re actually planning our first trip there next month,” I say, the words tasting sour. I didn’t know about any lake house until this moment.
“First trip? Oh.” Her surprise seems genuine. “I assumed—well, it was always his favorite place to escape. I’m sure he’s just been busy.”
The conversation circles like this. Amanda drops references to shared history, asking questions that probe the boundaries of my relationship with Skyler.
“Skyler always said he couldn’t imagine getting married anywhere but the lake house,” she mentions casually, examining her flawless manicure. “Has he taken you to see the spot where he always planned to say his vows?”
The question lands how she wanted.
Elaine watches our exchange with barely concealed satisfaction, like a cat who’s cornered two mice and is deciding which to pounce on first. The rest of the committee pretends to review their notes while hanging on every word.
I take a measured breath. “Skyler and I are building our own traditions. That’s what happens when you’re truly in love. You create something new together.”
The room falls silent at my declaration of love.
It’s like I’ve committed some terrible faux pas.
We’re engaged, for crying out loud! Amanda’s perfect smile freezes for just a microsecond before she recovers.
The charity committee women exchange glances laden with meanings I can’t decipher.
I’ve broken some unspoken rule. In the Thompson world, perhaps love isn’t supposed to be mentioned aloud.
It’s meant to be arranged, negotiated, leveraged, and never felt.
“Amanda, that suit is divine,” Elaine pivots, her voice warming at least ten degrees. “Valentino?”
Amanda touches her cream lapel with modest acknowledgment. “From their new collection.”
“It’s perfect on you. But then, everything always is.” Elaine’s compliment lands like a spotlight, illuminating Amanda while casting shadows on everyone else. On me.
The contrast isn’t subtle. My wine-stained nemesis versus her couture-clad champion.
“You’re too kind,” Amanda demurs, though her posture straightens slightly under the praise, like a flower turning to the sun.
“Not kind. Just truthful.” Elaine settles into her chair, adjusting an invisible wrinkle from her fresh outfit. “Amanda just made partner at Whitfield & Cohen, ladies. Youngest in the firm’s history.”
A chorus of congratulations ripples around the table. I add my own, though it sticks in my throat like a pill swallowed dry.
Amanda appears momentarily surprised at Elaine’s knowledge of her recent promotion. “Thank you.”
“That reminds me,” Elaine continues, her eyes bright with manufactured nostalgia. “I was just telling Catherine about that wonderful summer at the lake when you and Skyler renovated the boathouse.”
Amanda’s face softens with what appears to be genuine remembrance. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Remember? My dear, I have photos framed in the lake house study. The two of you, covered in sawdust, laughing. It was the first time I truly saw how compatible you were.”
The room blurs slightly at the edges of my vision. Skyler’s past relationship literally framed and honored while I sit here, the interloper.
“Skyler had never shown any interest in anything requiring manual labor,” Elaine tells the rapt committee, her voice warm with motherly pride. “But Amanda somehow convinced him to restore that old boathouse by hand. They spent weeks working together, planning every detail.”
“It was hardly that dramatic,” Amanda interjects. “Skyler did the real work. I just held the ladder and brought lemonade.”
“Nonsense. You designed the entire interior. That reading nook with the window seat was entirely your vision.”
This is brutal. It’s me against several women, most of whom don’t even know me. What am I even supposed to do in this situation? If I get up and leave, I’m weak. If I say something, I’m insecure. If I clear my throat, I’m a bitch.
So I do something I hate: I sit and take it. Because the best option, from what I can see, is to just observe. Don’t look bothered or insecure. Let them have their little moment. Because at the end of the day, Skyler loves me.
“I still have the blueprints you drew,” Elaine continues, then turns her attention to the rest of the women. “Skyler told me just last month that no one has ever understood his vision for the property like Amanda did.”