CHAPTER 2: The Wrong Party

Maya

The dress sticks to my skin like a second layer—silk and something I don’t really get, making me stand straighter, walk faster. Chloe’s heels click against the marble steps of the hotel, each sound echoing through the quiet lobby like a countdown.

“Told you this place was nice,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “Look at the chandeliers, they’ve got to be real crystal. I read somewhere that each one costs more than a house in Queens.”

I barely hear her. My eyes are fixed on the ballroom doors at the end of the hall, decorated with gold handles, red velvet curtains pulled back to reveal flashes of gold and white inside. The air smells like champagne and roses, so strong it makes my throat close up.

“I thought we were going to the rooftop bar,” I say, my voice tight. “You said it was in Brooklyn… this is the Plaza, Chloe. I’d know this lobby anywhere.”

“Change of plans,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. “This client of mine you know, the one who does PR for luxury hotels? She had to bail on the event tonight. Said I could use her plus-one. Trust me, the drinks here are way better than whatever they serve in Brooklyn. They’ve got a sommelier who can tell you what year the grapes were stepped on by hand.”

I pull my arm free, my bare shoulders prickling with cold even under the dress. “Chloe. What is this? Don’t lie to me. Is this… is this her party?”

Before she can answer, a string quartet starts playing somewhere inside, and the doors swing open wider. A waiter in a black tuxedo passes by with a tray of flutes, and I catch sight of the room beyond… round tables covered in white linen, centerpieces of white peonies as tall as my head, and a stage at the far end with a banner that reads: CELEBRATING MONICA & PHILIP.

My stomach drops out from under me. The floor tilts, and I grab the door frame to keep from falling.

“Are you kidding me?” I whisper, but my voice comes out sharp enough to make a couple nearby turn their heads—they’re dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, looking at me like I’m something they found on their shoe. “You brought me to her party? After everything I said?”

Chloe’s smile falters. “I thought if you saw them together, if you met him face to face you’d understand why she’s doing this. She looks happy, Maya. Really happy.”

“Happy?” I step back, my heels skidding on the marble. “That’s all that matters? She looks happy, so we just pretend Dad isn’t at home right now probably eating cereal for dinner because he can’t cook for himself? We pretend she didn’t leave us for some rich guy who can buy her whatever she wants?”

“Maya, wait—let’s talk about this somewhere quiet…”

But I’m already moving, pushing through the crowd at the entrance, trying to find the exit before anyone sees me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I swear everyone can hear it. I weave between couples, their laughter and chatter a wall of noise I can’t break through, someone’s telling a joke about golf, another couple is arguing about where to go on their honeymoon, a woman keeps talking about her new handbag.

Then I see her.

She’s standing by the stage, a champagne flute in her hand, wearing a silver dress that shimmers like fish scales under the lights. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, and she’s laughing, her head tilted back the same way it was in the photo. The man beside her has his hand on the small of her back, his fingers resting just above the hem of her dress, rubbing slow circles against the fabric.

He’s taller than the photo made him look. Broad shoulders under a black tux, silver hair combed back from his forehead, lines around his eyes that look like they were carved there by laughter. Even from across the room, I can see the way he watches her—like she’s the only person in the world who matters. It makes my chest ache.

Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. I turn to leave, but the slit of my dress catches on the edge of a tablecloth, pulling a crystal wine glass to the floor. It shatters against the marble with a crack that cuts through the music like a gunshot.

Every head turns.

My mom’s eyes widen when she sees me—then soften, like she wants to run over and wrap me in her arms. She says something to the man beside her, gesturing in my direction. But before she can move, he turns too.

His gaze finds mine across the crowded room, and the air between us goes thick and still. The noise fades to a dull hum. His hand drops from my mom’s back, his shoulders straightening. Even from here, I can see the way his jaw tightens just a little, but enough to make my skin prickle.

We stand like that for what feels like hours… him on one side of the room, me on the other, everyone else fading away until it’s just the two of us and the broken glass at my feet.

“Maya,” my mom calls out, her voice cutting through the silence. “Come here, baby. Let me introduce you properly.”