Chapter 7

   “So this is the final guest list from the bridal party, right?”

       Vivian Benson raised her finely plucked brows at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, quietly judging her.

    They sat on opposite ends of a damask-upholstered settee in the Benson’s drawing room, the kind of room that whispered money and restraint in equal measure.

     Monet Palmer was beautiful—exotic, even—with her brown skin, hooded eyes, and full, plump lips. There was something almost ethereal about her, like she didn’t belong in such a rigid, gilded space.

But she had no roots.

      Vivian might have tolerated Kyle marrying outside their elite circle—maybe even to some middle-class girl with a name and a story. But this one? This girl didn’t come from anywhere.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

But bloodline did.

      A flicker of sunlight filtered through the heavy silk drapes lining the tall windows, casting gold-edged shadows onto the marble floor. Vivian’s expression didn’t shift.

      She couldn’t make Kyle leave the girl, but maybe—just maybe—she could make the girl leave Kyle.

        “Kyle, sweetie,” she cooed, turning slightly to glance at her son as if Monet wasn’t even in the room. “I promised Glenda you’d stop by and see her grandbaby today.” Her collagen-injected face betrayed no hint of her fifty-two years as she jutted out her bottom lip and fluttered her lashes. The crystal chandelier overhead sent fractured light glittering across the polished mahogany table between them. “Could you please?”

     Kyle chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “After we finish here, I’ll go right over.”

      Vivian turned back to Monet, her cold brown eyes firing a silent message—sharp, surgical—without saying a word. The kind of silence that filled a room like perfume: expensive and suffocating.

       Monet didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on the older woman, her back stiff against the velvet seat. The antique furniture felt too delicate to lean on, like it might reject her presence entirely. She leaned slightly toward Kyle and murmured,

“How about you let me and your mother handle the final touches?”

     Kyle looked down. Her fists were clenched on her thighs, resting against the intricate embroidery of the Persian rug beneath her heels.

      He took one hand gently, forcing her to meet his eyes.

     “You’re sure you won’t be mad if I leave you?”

      She didn’t trust her voice. So she nodded, offering a weak smile.

        He leaned in, gave her a big kiss on the lips,    then stood and turned to his mother with a boyish grin. Bending to kiss her cheeks, he said,

“Take care of my fiancée, Mom.”

      And then he was gone—

His footsteps echoing faintly on the marble as he left. Leaving both women behind in a silence that wasn’t empty.

      It was loaded—humming beneath the chandelier, thickening in the hush of the gold-trimmed room like a storm behind glass.The door closed with a soft click.

      Vivian didn’t speak. She reached for her teacup with the grace of someone who’d been trained to host dukes and diplomats, not tolerate defiance. The porcelain made the faintest clink against its saucer as she took a sip, then set it down again—deliberate, measured. The chandelier above them trembled slightly with the shifting air.

       Monet didn’t move. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap now, fingers still tense, her knuckles pale against the rich brown of her skin. She didn’t trust herself to reach for her own teacup—she wasn’t sure her hands would stay steady.

      “You know,” Vivian said finally, her tone smooth as the silk drapes framing the windows, “I admire confidence. Truly. It’s a rare thing when it comes from… humble beginnings.”

      Monet turned her head slightly, blinking once. “Is that a compliment?”

     Vivian smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s an observation.”

       A long pause stretched between them, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Outside, the muted sound of a gardener trimming hedges hummed in the distance—life moving on, unaware.

    Monet crossed one leg over the other, slow and deliberate. She knew what this was.

      “I may not come from money,” she said, quietly but clearly, “but I come with something money doesn’t buy.”

      Vivian’s brows rose again, faintly amused. “Optimism?”

      “Love.”

     That made something flicker—just a second—in Vivian’s otherwise flawless face. The lines around her mouth sharpened, then smoothed again.

    “My son loves easily,” she replied, plucking a napkin from the tray with manicured fingers. “But not wisely. I’m simply here to make sure that when the novelty wears off, he’s not left picking up the pieces.”

      Monet gave a soft laugh under her breath. “Of course. You’re only trying to protect him.”

      Vivian folded the napkin with precision. “Naturally.”

     Monet leaned forward slightly, her voice gentler now. “Then let’s not waste time pretending this is tea and polite conversation.”

     Their eyes locked across the gleaming table—two women seated in a room lined with legacy and expectation, neither willing to look away first.

      Vivian reached for another sugar cube she didn’t need. Her hands moved like clockwork, deliberate and precise.

     “You know,” she said, as if she were commenting on the weather, “when I was about your age, I also went to see a fertility specialist in Manhattan.”

     The silence sharpened.

       Monet didn’t blink—but she stopped breathing for half a second.

      Vivian smiled faintly, watching her with the kind of satisfaction one reserved for checkmate.

     “Of course,” she continued, stirring her tea slowly, “I had the decency to let my mother-in-law and husband not find out through whispers.”

    Monet’s throat felt dry, but she didn’t let it show. “I’m not married yet.”

     Vivian set her spoon down gently, the faintest tap echoing against porcelain. “A technicality.”

     She leaned back, crossing her legs, elegant and unhurried. “What surprises me isn’t that you went. It’s that you thought no one would find out. You see, dear—money buys a lot of things, but the most valuable asset is access. And access gives you information.” Her smile never faltered. “Which you clearly don’t have.”

     Monet’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m not enough for your son?”

      “No, darling.” Vivian’s tone was soft, almost affectionate. “This is the part where I tell you—he might be enough for you. But you? You will never be enough for this family.”

  

     Monet stood slowly, smoothing the front of her skirt. Her heart was hammering, but her voice was as even as crystal.

    “I didn’t ask to be enough. I was chosen. And that… is something you don’t get to undo.”

       Vivian said nothing for a moment, her expression unreadable.

      Then she leaned forward just slightly, her tone soft—almost intimate, like she wanted to whisper a most captivating secret.

    “Darling, chosen women are always replaced. It’s the ones who belong that stay.”

    She sipped her tea again, “It's enough that you don't have roots,but not being able to grow your own is just painful a slap to the face.”

    The chandelier shimmered overhead like a threat waiting to fall.

    Monet didn't respond. She didn’t give Vivian the satisfaction. She turned, gathered her composure like a silk shawl, and walked out of the room—graceful, poised.

     But inside her chest, something burned.

    The door shut behind her with a soft finality.

   Vivian sipped her tea.

   Smiling.

_________

      Monet shut the bedroom door gently behind her, the old brass handle cool beneath her fingers. The room was just as elegant as the rest of the house—muted pastels, a tufted chaise by the window, fresh peonies in a porcelain vase. But the air was different here. Quieter. Safe, if only for a moment.

     She let out the breath she’d been holding.

     Her shoulders dropped.

      She moved to the window, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out at the perfectly manicured garden. Everything outside was symmetrical. Controlled. Curated. Just like Vivian.

     And Monet had walked right into it.

     She hadn't told a soul about the fertility visit—not even Kyle. It had been hers. Her private grief. Her silent hope. And somehow, Vivian had torn the ribbon off and displayed it like cheap gossip.

     Monet’s throat tightened, but she didn’t  cry.

     She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her phone. Her finger hovered over Kyle’s name.

      Instead of calling, she opened her message app still not trusting her voice:

    “I'm going  for a walk, I'll probably meet you at your apartment later.”

       She didn't wait for a reply, picked up her overnight bag the maid had kept on the ottoman at her request. It had been a joke to think that she could have spent the night in this house.

     Her next call was to the hospital, she scheduled her appointment for later that afternoon instead of tomorrow as planned eager to rip the invisible band aid off for ever.