Chapter 13 — The Family Dinner

POV: BEATRIX

The doorbell had barely stopped ringing when Nikolai opened the door himself. 

He waved off the staff member who started toward it, quietly insisting that he be the one standing there when my family arrived. 

I barely had time to notice before my mother swept in, already talking, her eyes moving over the entryway with the same hungry, appraising look I'd known my whole life.

“Oh, this floor.” She crouched right down and ran her hand along the marble like she was checking out a prize horse. 

“Italian, I’d bet. You never see veining like this unless someone spent real money.” 

"Mother!" I said.

She stood back up, unbothered, and moved to the entryway table. She picked up a small bronze sculpture, turned it over looking for a signature, then set it back down slightly crooked. 

"And this piece. Did you insure it separately, or is it under the main policy? A friend of mine had a Degas disaster in a move; her insurance nightmare. You ought to check on that.” She sounded like she was doing us a huge favor

Nikolai said nothing. Which, I was learning, was its own kind of statement.

In the living room, she stopped at the windows and priced the view as if she were pricing the air itself. Then she moved to the kitchen doorway. 

"Quartzite," she said, running a finger along the counter. 

"I could tell from the doorway. Very on trend right now." She murmured something about stone being a better investment than stocks. 

Every room got its own running appraisal. Each dollar estimate was announced loud enough for the whole house to hear. At that point, she wasn’t a guest; she was staging an open house.

By the time we made it to the dining room, she’d put a price on the chandelier, the rug, and the pottery on the sideboard, narrating every value with a tour guide’s enthusiasm, like she was already mapping out her future inheritance.

My jaw ached from trying not to react. Across the room, Nikolai caught my eye and gave the tiniest shake of his head. Don’t let her win. I tried, for his sake.

Ten minutes later, Serena swept in, dragging a date who disappeared straight to the bar cart and never came back.

She scanned the table, found her place card set across from Nikolai exactly where Ivy had put it, and picked it up between two fingers like it had personally offended her.

“Hmm, must be a mix-up,” she said, and swapped it with the card beside him. 

She didn't ask. She just did it, smiling the whole time, and sat down before anyone could say anything. 

Nobody protested. Nobody ever did with Serena. That was always the whole problem.

Ivy shot me a look from across the table. She’d seen it coming and hated being right. 

Nikolai’s eyes flicked to the cards, then to me. We both knew letting Serena think she’d “won” was the smartest play.

Dinner started the usual way. Serena’s laugh was too loud for jokes that weren’t funny, leaning in so close she kept touching Nikolai’s shoulder and “accidentally” apologizing each time. 

Martha kept to her schedule too, pivoting mid-meal to her wounded-mother monologue. Her voice went thin and fragile, her napkin pressed to her eye. 

“You know, raising you two alone was never easy. I gave up everything. Everything. Now I can’t even get a returned phone call.”

She let the silence stretch, waiting for comfort. I used to be the one who rushed to fill the gap. Tonight, I just sipped my wine and stayed quiet.

No one said a word. Nikolai’s face betrayed nothing. I was grateful—finally, someone was in my corner.

At the far end of the table, Ivy kept sending me little looks every time my mother’s volume rose. It was the same kind of unspoken support we’d shared about the seating chart earlier.

Somewhere during the main course, I felt Nikolai stiffen. His fork froze halfway to his plate. I didn’t get it at first, until I glanced down and realized Serena’s foot was sliding up his leg under the table. Above the table, she looked completely calm, like nothing was happening.

I looked at Nikolai. His jaw had gone stone, eyes fixed somewhere past Serena’s head like he was negotiating with a stubborn client.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Serena jumped in faster, talking a mile a minute, maybe sensing her window was closing.

“Beatrix has always been the boring one, honestly,” she tossed out, laughing like it was just a fact. “No idea how you even get her out of the house. Life’s too short, you know?”

The words landed like a slap—casual, ugly, the kind of comment my family had trained me for. 

Shame crept up my neck, and my body’s instinct was to shrink and disappear.

Nikolai set his fork down with a small, sharp click. Even Martha stopped mid-breath.

Without looking at Serena, he said, “Move your foot, or you’ll be finishing this meal in the back of a car.”

Serena started to laugh—“I don’t know what you’re talking about”—but he cut across her, voice calm and steady.

“I know exactly what you’re doing, and I’m telling you, once, to cut it out.” His voice was quiet. Unbothered. Certain in a way I’d never heard before. 

“You don’t disrespect my wife at my table. Do it again, and you’re leaving.”

Silence. The loud, ringing kind that turns your ears hollow. Even the kitchen staff froze.

For a second, no one moved. Then, under the table, Nikolai reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine and leaving them in plain sight.

A simple, deliberate act—something I’d never felt before. 

Twenty-six years of family dinners had taught me to take humiliation quietly, make myself small, and let things pass. Nobody ever told the room, silently but firmly, that my suffering was off-limits.

I stared down at my plate, trying not to do anything embarrassing. When I looked back up, Ivy was watching from the end of the table with a small, knowing smile, like she’d seen this coming all along.

My mother recovered first. Of course she did. 

“Well,” she said, light as air, grabbing her wine. “This bisque is amazing. Private chef or is it catered?” No one answered. She didn’t need an answer, just kept talking, filling the silence with wine pairings and recipe requests, muscling the dinner back toward “normal” through sheer force of will.

That was her talent: surviving thirty years of worse family dinners. Almost admirable, in its way.

Serena didn’t speak again until dessert. Her cheeks stayed red, though she managed her composure by the time the plates were cleared.

Soon, my mother excused herself to the powder room, blotting her lips with her napkin as she stood. 

I watched her go, not because I suspected anything, just habit, an old reflex. But something felt a little off. She drifted too close to the hallway credenza, lingered a bit too long, hand brushing against the bowl for keys and a pile of unopened mail. I couldn’t guess what she was after.

A second later, the moment was gone, swallowed by the evening’s noise.

I told myself it was nothing, which I’d had too much practice doing when it came to her. And I’d been wrong before.

When she came back, her smile was bright and easy. As if nothing happened at all, as if dinner hadn’t been a battleground. 

By the time the last car drove away, I still couldn’t shake the weird, nagging feeling about the credenza. I couldn’t explain why it stuck with me if you’d asked.

I promised myself to check it later. Then dessert arrived, and, truthfully, I forgot all about it until much later on.