CHAPTER 7: THE LONG TABLE

"Celia," Damien said.

He said it quietly, but I heard everything inside that one word. Of course. Who else would call my parents to a family dinner and not tell me?

My stomach dropped. I had spent the whole ride trying to be brave, and now my courage was leaking out of me like water from a cracked cup.

"Stay close," Damien said. He opened his door, walked around the car, and held out his hand.

Clause nine.

I put my fingers in his, and we walked up the white stone steps together. His hand was cold again, but he held mine tighter than he did in the car. I did not know if that was a good sign.

The front doors opened before we reached them.

My mother was standing right there. She must have been waiting. She wore her best cream coat, the one she saved for weddings, and her eyes were red and wet. The second she saw me, her face changed. She rushed forward and grabbed both my hands.

"My poor girl," she cried, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "My poor, confused girl. Thank God you're safe."

Not *where were you.* Not *I'm sorry I screamed at you.* Just a show, for the people watching.

Then she turned to Damien, and I watched my own mother bend her whole body in front of him, like a servant.

"Mr. Ashford. Please forgive us. We had no idea. Lila is a good girl, a very good girl, she just got upset, and, and, we are so honored, so honored, we never dreamed..."

"Mrs. Monroe," Damien said.

That was all. Just her name. She stopped talking at once.

My father stood a few steps behind, looking at the floor, as usual. He gave me one small nod. It was the only thing he said to me all night.

The dining hall was huge. A chandelier the size of a car hung over a table that could seat thirty people. About fifteen sat there already. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins I had only seen in family photos. All of them stopped talking when we walked in, and I felt every eye land on me like a hand.

Celia sat at the head of the table in a dark red dress. Her pearls looked tight around her neck. She did not stand. She just watched me come toward her, slowly, from top to bottom, the way you look at a stain on a clean cloth.

"Sit," she said.

Damien pulled out a chair for me. I sat. He sat next to me, and under the table, without a word, his hand found mine again.

For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The servants poured water. Plates of food appeared in front of us, white and gold and smelling of butter. I could not eat. My throat felt as small as a straw.

"So," Celia said, folding her napkin, "this is the girl."

Nobody answered.

"The girl who three days ago was crying about my son's engagement party. And now here she is, wearing my brother-in-law's ring." Her eyes dropped to my left hand. "Oh, it's a real one. How clever. She picked the biggest."

Someone laughed. A woman near the end of the table covered her mouth with her hand.

"Celia," Damien said.

"No, Damien, I want to say it. Everyone is thinking it." She leaned forward. "Do you know what we call a girl like this? A girl who loses one rich man and finds a richer one in a single night?"

My face burned. I looked down at my plate.

"A gold digger."

The word fell in the room like a dropped plate.

"Look at her family," an older aunt said in a loud whisper. "Her father begs for contracts. Her mother crawls. What did you expect?"

"She saw her chance, that is all," said a cousin. "The Ashford name. The money. Poor Ryan, he never saw it coming."

"I always said she was too quiet. The quiet ones are the worst."

I sat there, so small, listening to them take me apart. They talked about me as if I was not in the room. As if I was a thing, not a person. Every word was a small stone, and they threw them all at once, and I could not find a place to hide.

Why? That was what I kept asking myself. *What did I ever do to you?* I never took a single thing from Ryan. He threw me away. He called me boring. He was the one who cheated, and yet they were looking at me as if I had set fire to their house.

My eyes stung. My hand shook inside Damien's. And I thought, very clearly: *If I cry now, they win.*

"Lila." My mother's voice cut across the table. Soft, but with iron under it. "Say sorry to your Aunt Celia."

I turned my head.

She was looking at me with that wide, begging face. The same face she wore in the hallway at the party. The face that said, *please just make this easy for me.*

"Say it," she whispered. "She is upset. Just apologize, and it will be over."

All around the table, they waited.

*Do not apologize,* Damien had said in the car. *Not tonight.*

I did not know where the strength came from. Maybe it was from the quiet man next to me, whose fingers were warm against mine now. Maybe it was from all the years I said sorry for things that were never my fault. But something inside me, small and tired and stubborn, said no.

I stood up.

My knees were shaking so badly I had to hold the edge of the table.

"I'm not going to say sorry, Mom."

The room went still.

My voice came out soft. It cracked in the middle. I was so scared I could hardly breathe. But I kept my eyes on Celia, and I did not look away.

"Aunt Celia," I said. "You can hate me if you want. I can't stop you. But I did not take anything from Ryan. He gave it away himself." I swallowed. "And I'm not a gold digger. I didn't ask for any of this. Please don't call me that again."

That was all. I did not shout. I did not cry. I just said it, the way you say something true.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Celia let out a small, cold laugh. "Listen to her. Three days in this family, and she is already giving orders."

"I'm not giving orders. I'm just asking."

"Asking!" She turned to the table. "You hear that? She is *asking.* The little maid asks me, in my own house, to be polite!"

"Sit down, Lila," my mother hissed. "You are making it worse."

My heart sank. I looked at my father. He was staring at his hands.

No one was on my side. Not one person in that room, except...

Damien rose to his feet.

He did not do it fast. He just stood, slowly, and the whole table seemed to lean back in their chairs, like a wave pulling away from the shore. He did not let go of my hand.

"Celia," he said.

His voice was very low. It did not echo. It did not need to.

"She is my wife."

Silence.

"She is my wife in this house, and in every house that carries my name. If anyone at this table insults her again, they insult me." His eyes moved around the room, one face at a time. "I will remember who."

The older aunt went white. The cousin who laughed suddenly found his plate very interesting. Celia's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like a fish.

"Damien, you cannot be serious," she said. "A girl like this..."

"A girl like this," said Damien, "is the only person at this table who has not insulted anyone tonight."

I stared at him. My eyes were burning, and I could not tell why. Maybe because nobody ever said anything like that about me. Maybe because I knew it was only for show.

Or maybe because, just for one second, it did not feel like a show.

I sat back down slowly. He sat too. Under the table, his thumb moved once across my knuckles. Small. Almost nothing. But I felt it all the way up my arm.

Then the big double doors at the end of the hall flew open.

A cold wind rushed through the room. Everyone turned.

Ryan stood in the doorway. His tie was loose, his eyes were red, and he looked angry enough to break something. And on his arm, in a tight white dress, her hand resting gently on her flat stomach, stood Sabrina.

She smiled at me. Slowly. Sweetly.

"Hello, Auntie," she said.