Chapter 3

Not across from her. Not a respectful distance at the other end of the table.

Right beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.

Sebastian’s hand presses harder into my lower back, forcing me forward when all I want to do is turn around and walk back out.

Arabella looks up and her face lights up with a smile. “Sebastian! We were just talking about you.”

Marisol rises from her seat gracefully, kisses Sebastian on both cheeks and then turns to me.

“Dahlia. You’re here.”

Not hello. Not how are you.

“Mother.” I manage.

“Marisol, please. We’ve been over this.” She’s already turning back to Arabella. “Bella was just telling me about her time in London. You should hear about the charity gala she organized last spring—it raised over two million pounds in a single night, can you imagine?”

Bella.

Bella.

I stare at Arabella—at Bella—and something clicks into place.

Sebastian mentioned Bella once. Maybe twice. His childhood friend. The one who left for a better opportunity. The one who broke his heart.

I never knew her full name.

Arabella.

She’s watching me and when our eyes meet her smile sharpens just enough at the edges that I know she sees exactly what just clicked in my head.

“It’s so wonderful to finally meet Sebastian’s wife properly,” she says, and she sounds sincere. She looks sincere. But her eyes are laughing. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I doubt that.

“Sit, sit!” Marisol gestures to the chairs across from where she and Arabella are seated. “Dahlia, you’re looking terribly thin lately. Are you eating properly?”

I sit down carefully. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.”

Sebastian drops into the seat next to me and his phone is out before he’s fully settled, the blue light washing over his face.

I pull the wine bottle and honey jar from my bag. “I brought these for you. The honey is from—”

“How sweet.” Marisol doesn’t even look at it. “Just set it on the side table, dear.”

I put them down on the edge of the table, feeling foolish.

Arabella reaches into her handbag and pulls out an orange box tied with brown ribbon.

Hermès.

“I brought you something too,” Arabella says warmly. “I hope you like it.”

Marisol’s whole face transforms. “Bella, you didn’t have to do that.”

She opens the box inside is a silk scarf in deep burgundy with a gold pattern. Even from across the table I can tell it’s beautiful.

“It’s nothing.” Arabella waves her hand dismissively. “You mentioned once that you liked their scarves and I happened to be near the flagship store in Paris last month.”

“I love it.” Marisol holds the scarf up to the light. “I absolutely love it.”

I look down at the wine bottle sitting uselessly on the side table.

The meal is four-course exercise in humiliation.

Marisol spends the first course asking Arabella about her work.

“So you’re taking over the Thayer wedding project now?” She cuts her fish into precise little pieces “That’s quite a responsibility.”

“It’s exciting,” Arabella says. “The project has so much potential..”

“I’m sure you will. You always were ambitious.” Marisol smiles fondly. “Do you remember when you and Sebastian built that lemonade stand?”

Arabella laughs. “Oh god, yes.”

“You were always perfect for each other.” Marisol’s voice goes soft. “I always thought…”

She trails off and glances at me.

“Well,” Marisol continues after a pause. “Things change, don’t they?”

Arabella reaches over and squeezes Marisol’s hand. “Some things change. But not the important ones.”

I take a long drink of water and try to disappear into my chair.

The second course comes. Then the third. Marisol asks about Arabella’s family, her apartment in London, her plans for the future.

I might as well not be here.

By the time the fourth course arrives I’m exhausted from smiling politely and saying nothing. And that was when Marisol moved on to her favorite topic.

“Three years is a long time,” she says.

Here we go.

“I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you,” she continues, which means she’s absolutely about to pressure me. “But at your age, fertility becomes more… complicated.”

“I’m just twenty-eight.”

“Exactly.” She leans forward slightly. “Which is why I wanted to give you this.”

She slides a small glass bottle across the table. The liquid inside is dark brown and murky.

I stare at it. “What is that?”

“It’s a traditional Chinese tonic. It’s supposed to help prepare the body for conception.”

My stomach turns. “Mother—”

“Marisol.”

“Marisol,” I correct myself. “I appreciate the thought but I don’t think I need—”

“Drink it.

It’s not a request

I look at Sebastian for help but he’s busy scrolling through his phone.

Marisol sits back in her chair and her expression goes cold. “That seems to be the problem, doesn’t it? You don’t think about what this family needs. What Sebastian needs.”

Even Arabella looks uncomfortable now.

“I’ve been patient,” Marisol continues. Her voice is calm. Too calm. “I accepted you despite your… background.”

My face burns.

“But three years.” She shakes her head slowly. “Three years and nothing to show for it.”

I pick up the bottle with shaking hands. It smells like rotting plants but I forced myself to bring it to my lips and take a sip.

The taste is worse than the smell. Bitter and thick coating my tongue, my throat.

My stomach revolts immediately, I press my hand over my mouth.

“Dahlia. Don’t be rude. And for heaven’s sake, mind your table manners.”

“I’m sorry.” The words come out strangled. “I’m sorry, I just—”

I tip the bottle back and force the rest of the liquid down my throat. It takes everything I have not to vomit it back up immediately.

“There.” Marisol dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Was that so difficult?”

My stomach is churning so badly I grip the edge of the table.

“You know, I really have been understanding for a long while.” Marisol continues like she’s discussing the weather.

She pauses.

“But three years?” Her voice hardens. “At this point I’m not sure if you’re fertile at all.”

Sebastian finally looks up from his phone.

“Mother.”

“What?” She turns to him. “Am I wrong?”

Arabella clears her throat softly. “Perhaps we should talk about something else.”

“You’re right.” Marisol’s expression softens immediately. “You always know the right thing to say, Bella. That’s what I love about you.”

She reaches over and pats Arabella’s hand.

“You’re not an outsider,” Marisol says. “You never have been.”

The meaning is crystal clear.

Unlike some people at this table.

Dessert has just been served when both my phone and Arabella’s light up at the same time.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Arabella’s hand freezes halfway to her wine glass. She pulls out her phone and the color drains from her face.

My own phone is still vibrating against my thigh. I fish it out and see the notifications flooding in.

Email after email. I open the first one and my stomach drops as I skim the details. The bride. Eloise Bennington. Allergic reaction during the menu tasting. Hospital. Her family is threatening to pull out of the entire wedding and they’re talking about lawsuits.

Arabella’s hand is shaking as she presses her phone to her ear and I watch her perfect composure crack right down the middle.

“What do you mean she’s at the hospital?” Her voice comes out tight and sharp. “How did this happen? I specifically told you to—” She stops and listen. Her hand gripping the phone so hard her knuckles go white. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

She ends the call and turns to Marisol. “I’m so sorry. There’s a situation. I need to go right now.”

“Of course, darling.” Marisol rises and kisses Arabella’s cheek. “Go handle it.”

Arabella gathers her things quickly and rushes toward the door and in her haste nearly collides with a waiter carrying a tray. He jerks back and the tray tilts, glasses shatter on the floor.

Arabella doesn’t even stop to look back.

The door swings shut behind her and the restaurant goes quiet except for the waiter muttering apologies while he kneels to clean up broken pieces.

I should feel bad about the obvious panic in her voice.

But I don’t.

A small smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. I’d spent weeks vetting caterers for this wedding, had found the perfect chef who specialized in high-end events.

Then Arabella swept in with her “celebrity chef” who’d cooked for some royal wedding in Monaco and made my choice look boring. She’d been so focused on getting someone elite that she clearly hadn’t bothered to read a single page of the documentation I’d put together.

And now Eloise Bennington—whose shellfish allergy I’d flagged in red on every single vendor sheet—is in the hospital because of Arabella’s famous chef and his precious seven-course tasting menu.

Karma works fast sometimes.

“Something amusing, Dahlia?”