Chapter 10
Harley
The evening air still clings to my skin as I enter the Thompson mansion.
My walk did nothing to calm me—if anything, it gave my anger more room to expand.
Through the foyer windows, I watch the sun sink behind manicured hedges, taking my patience with it.
The dining room lights are already on. Dinner will be served precisely at seven, because God forbid a Thompson meal starts even a minute late.
Some things are sacred in this house. My feelings aren’t one of them.
Skyler stands at the bottom of the staircase, his posture unnaturally stiff, even for him. He’s changed into a fresh button-down, as if proper attire might shield him from the fallout of his choices. His eyes search mine, looking for forgiveness I’m not ready to offer.
“You’re back,” he says.
“Dinner’s about to start,” I reply, stating the obvious because I can’t bring myself to address what really matters.
He steps toward me, that damned gift bag nowhere in sight. Smart move. “Harley, about earlier—”
“Not now.” I brush past him, my shoulder deliberately avoiding contact with his. “I need to change.”
I don’t actually need to change. My blue top and jeans are perfectly clean, but they’ll never pass Elaine’s inspection, and right now, I don’t have the energy.
Upstairs, I slip into a navy dress I know she’ll find acceptable, if not impressive. The fabric feels tight as I zip myself into it. Makeup comes next—just enough to look “presentable” without trying too hard. Can’t give Elaine the satisfaction of thinking I care what she thinks.
But I do care what Skyler thinks, and that’s the whole problem.
When I descend the stairs, the dining room doors are open, releasing the scent of expensive cuisine and even more expensive perfume. Robert and Elaine are already seated, cocktails in hand. Skyler stands by the sidebar, pouring himself something amber and strong. No one offers me a drink.
“There she is,” Elaine says, her smile fake. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d join us.”
It’s 6:58. Even though I’m technically two minutes early, somehow, I’m still late.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I lie, taking my assigned seat—the one furthest from Robert and directly in Elaine’s line of sight.
Skyler slides into his chair beside me, careful not to touch me in the process.
The dining room closes around me. Family portraits stare down from walls paneled in rich cherry wood, generations of Thompson judgment preserved in oil and canvas.
The table stretches between us, sterling silver weapons laid out beside bone china plates.
“Marta has prepared duck confit,” Elaine announces as the housekeeper appears with the first course. “A Thompson favorite.”
I’ve never once heard Skyler express fondness for duck confit, but I’ve learned that “Thompson favorite” rarely refers to individual preferences.
Small talk fills the space between serving courses. Robert discusses stock portfolios, and Elaine mentions her garden club’s upcoming charity auction. Skyler nods at appropriate intervals while I push food around my plate and imagine being anywhere else.
After the salad course, Robert casually drops the conversational equivalent of a grenade.
“I ran into Amanda at the club yesterday,” Robert says, examining his wineglass with intense focus. “George mentioned her new partnership is already bringing in significant litigation. Youngest in the firm’s history.”
Beside me, Skyler stiffens. His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, and for a second, I see the corded tension in his neck that he tries so hard to hide. It’s the third time her promotion has been served alongside our dinner this week.
Elaine leans forward, her eyes lighting up in a way they never do when she looks at me. “Was she as stunning as ever?”
“Absolutely,” Robert replies, his gaze sliding toward Skyler, heavy and pointed. “Asked about you, son. Seemed quite interested in how the Henderson project is progressing now that she’s handling the legal side.”
Skyler shifts, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusts his napkin for the tenth time. He stares down at his plate as if the answer to his life’s problems is buried in the duck confit.
As I watch him, a cold lump forms in my stomach.
He’s already congratulated her—I saw the awkward, pained smile he gave her at the charity meeting—but his father presents the fact like a trophy Skyler was too foolish to keep.
Robert isn’t telling us anything new. He’s reminding Skyler of the “perfect” life he traded away for a girl who brings mold and chaos into their pristine world.
I pick up my water glass, my knuckles white. They don’t just want me to feel inferior; they want Skyler to feel regret.
“Amanda did have an impressive grasp of business fundamentals,” Elaine continues, warming to her favorite subject.
I set down my fork, appetite evaporating. Skyler clears his throat but offers no response, no defense, no change of subject. Just silence that speaks volumes.
“She’s chairing the children’s hospital benefit this year,” Robert adds, cutting his duck. “The governor will be attending. Excellent networking opportunity.”
“How wonderful.” Elaine clasps her hands together. “She always involved herself with the right organizations. The perfect fit for the Thompson name.”
The perfect fit. Children’s hospital. They’re kidding, right? I’m a social worker who works with children, and all I’ve gotten are passive-aggressive comments about my lowly income.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my water glass, knuckles whitening with the effort not to shatter it.
Skyler notices—I see his eyes flick toward my hand—but he says nothing, does nothing.
Instead, he takes another bite of food like we’re discussing the weather instead of his ex-fiancée’s superiority.
Marta clears the plates, the brief interruption doing nothing to derail the Thompsons’ Amanda appreciation tour.
“Did she mention the Palmer gala?” Elaine asks Robert. “I heard she wore Valentino. Impeccable taste.”
“She did look exceptional at the Palmer gala,” Robert confirms. “Several associates commented on it.”
I watch Skyler from the corner of my eye. His shoulders curl forward slightly, his posture a millimeter less perfect than the Thompson standard. He adjusts his tie, though it needs no adjustment. Discomfort radiates from him, but not enough for him to actually intervene.
“You know,” Robert says, leaning back as Marta sets the main course before him, “we should invite her to the Thompson Foundation dinner next month. She adds such elegance to those events.”
The invitation hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.
This is it—the moment Skyler should speak up, should point out the inappropriateness of inviting his ex to a family function while his fiancée sits right here.
It’s one thing for Amanda to show up to his mom’s women’s club, but it’s another to invite her to a specific family event.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Skyler takes a sip of water. Dabs his mouth with his napkin. Picks up his fork again.
The silence stretches until Elaine fills it, naturally. “What a marvelous idea, Robert. I’m sure Amanda would be delighted. She’s always considered us family, engagement or not.”
My chest constricts, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. I set my knife down with deliberate care, afraid of what I might do with it otherwise. The heavy silver makes a soft clink against the fine china—such a delicate sound for the rage building inside me.
“The Foundation dinner is black tie, of course,” Elaine continues, her eyes sliding to me. “Quite formal. Perhaps we should discuss appropriate attire, Harley. I know formal events aren’t really your milieu.”
Still, Skyler says nothing. His silence is a betrayal more profound than any words could be.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of the professional composure I use when facing hostile judges and difficult clients. “Thank you for your concern, Elaine, but I’m familiar with formal attire requirements.”
“Of course, dear.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy to recommend my personal shopper if you’d like some guidance.”
The meal continues, each bite tasting like ash.
I focus on the family portraits watching our performance—stern faces that seem to approve of Skyler’s spineless compliance while judging my obvious inadequacy.
One particular painting dominates: Skyler’s grandfather, his expression so similar to Robert’s, it’s unsettling.
Three generations of Thompson men, all trained to value family legacy over individual happiness.
By dessert, my jaw aches from clenching it. Skyler makes one attempt at physical connection as his knee briefly touches mine beneath the table. I shift away immediately, the contact burning like betrayal.
He chose silence again. And in doing so, he made his choice perfectly clear.
I follow Skyler up the grand staircase, watching his perfectly straight back as he climbs each step.
The weight of unspoken words presses against my sternum.
Dinner was humiliating. Elaine and Robert’s Amanda worship tiring, with Skyler as the silent accomplice.
My hands shake slightly, not from fear but from restraining myself through three courses of thinly veiled insults and pointed comparisons.
Not anymore. In the guest wing hallway, safely out of earshot from his parents, I grab his arm, forcing him to face me.
“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out low and dangerous.
Skyler has the decency to look uncomfortable. “Let’s not do this in the hallway.”
“Why not? Afraid someone might hear me point out what a coward you are?”
His eyes dart to the side, checking for witnesses to his shame. “Harley, please. You know how they are about Amanda.”