Chapter 17 — The Dinner

The dining room was enormous, with high ceilings, golden chandeliers, and a polished table that gleamed under the soft light. Dianne couldn’t help but glance around nervously, taking in the opulent setting. Every chair had been placed with precision, every plate aligned perfectly. The Sinclair family was in their element, and she felt like an intruder.

Roy walked beside her, his hand lightly brushing hers, a quiet anchor amidst the intimidating grandeur.

“Remember,” he whispered just before they reached the table, “we stick to the plan. Keep it simple, polite, don’t react to anything… and stay close to me.”

Dianne swallowed hard and nodded, smoothing the front of her dress.

They sat.

Almost immediately, Mrs. Sinclair began speaking, her voice a practiced mixture of pride and control. “Roy, darling, I hope you’ve told Dianne about Karen. Such a remarkable girl. Harvard, internships, the perfect socialite, fluent in three languages… and, of course, she can play the piano beautifully.”

Dianne stiffened, feeling the tension in Roy beside her. He tried to intervene gently.

“Mum, I—”

But Mrs. Sinclair cut him off mid-sentence, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “No, no. This is important for Dianne to understand. She needs to know what standards we uphold in this family. Roy, why haven’t you told her about Karen’s achievements? Aren’t you proud?”

Dianne felt her stomach drop. What standards? she thought bitterly. Since when is my worth measured against someone else’s accomplishments?

Before she could say anything, the door swung open, and Karen swept in—flawless, poised, and dangerously confident. She leaned forward, placing a perfumed kiss on Mrs. Sinclair’s cheek, then casually pecked Roy’s lips.

Dianne’s hand tightened on her napkin. She forced herself to breathe.

Mrs. Sinclair beamed. “See, Dianne? Isn’t she wonderful? Always so graceful. Such a bright future ahead. I only wish you could understand what it means to be a Sinclair woman.”

Dianne opened her mouth to respond, but Roy’s hand gently pressed against hers, stopping her. He opened his mouth to speak for her.

“Mum, please—”

But Mrs. Sinclair’s glare silenced him instantly. “Roy. Not now. Let me finish. Dianne, what are your accomplishments, my dear? Tell me.”

The words dripped with condescension, and Dianne’s heart raced.

Roy’s sister, Vanessa, who had been quietly observing the scene, leaned in with a sharp edge. “Yes, Mother. Really, Dianne. What have you done that makes you fit to sit at this table?”

The room seemed to shrink around Dianne. Every eye on her felt like a spotlight, highlighting her insecurity.

Roy’s jaw clenched. He wanted to defend her, to speak, to tell them all she was enough—but he couldn’t. Mrs. Sinclair’s icy stare stopped him.

Dianne took a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet Vanessa’s gaze calmly. “I may not have Harvard or social accolades,” she said, her voice steady though her hands shook, “but I have integrity, loyalty, and a mind of my own. Those are the things I value—and the things I bring with me.”

The room went silent. Mrs. Sinclair blinked slowly, as though she hadn’t expected the woman at her table to respond. Vanessa’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly annoyed by the challenge.

Karen, seemingly oblivious, smiled sweetly at Roy, her eyes flicking briefly to Dianne. There was a tension there, unspoken, sharp enough to cut.

Roy reached for Dianne’s hand under the table, a silent show of support.

Mrs. Sinclair cleared her throat, voice tight. “Well… we shall see how you fit in over the next few days.”

Dianne exhaled quietly, squeezing Roy’s hand. One day at a time, she thought. Just survive tonight.

But she knew: surviving tonight was going to take everything she had—and then some.

Dinner resumed, but the atmosphere had shifted—tightened—like a string pulled to its breaking point.

Crystal clinked faintly as servers moved around the table, placing courses with impeccable grace. No one spoke for several seconds. The silence felt heavy, deliberate. Dianne kept her eyes on her plate, willing her pulse to slow. Roy sat close enough that she could feel the warmth from his arm, but even that didn’t settle her nerves.

Mrs. Sinclair finally broke the silence.

“So,” she said briskly, picking up her fork, “Dianne, you mentioned integrity and loyalty. Admirable qualities.” She didn’t sound impressed. “But in this family, achievements matter. Status matters. One must contribute something meaningful.”

Vanessa hummed in agreement, swirling her wine. “Mother’s right. Being in this family isn’t just about… feelings.”

Karen giggled softly. “Oh, Vanessa, don’t be too harsh. Some people bring… emotional qualities. It’s refreshing.” Her tone made it anything but a compliment.

Roy’s grip on his fork tightened. “Enough.”

Everyone looked at him—Mrs. Sinclair with surprise, Vanessa with annoyance, Karen with a curious tilt of her head.

Roy continued, voice controlled but firm. “You invited Dianne here. If this dinner is going to be a trial, that’s fine, but don’t pretend it’s hospitality.”

Karen lifted a brow, amused. Mrs. Sinclair looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

“Roy,” she said sharply, “you will not speak to me in that tone in my house.”

“It’s your house,” he replied calmly, “but she’s my guest. And she deserves respect.”

Dianne froze. He had never sounded this assertive with his family before. A flicker of gratitude warmed her chest.

Mrs. Sinclair inhaled deeply. “Respect,” she echoed, turning her gaze back to Dianne. “Very well. Tell us, dear—what is your long-term vision? Surely you have one.”

It was a trap. The kind that made failure look like destiny.

Dianne straightened. “I want to build something meaningful. For myself. It may not come with degrees or titles yet, but I’m not afraid of hard work. And I don’t measure success the way you do.” She paused, eyes steady. “That doesn’t make mine any less valid.”

Karen’s fork paused midway to her mouth. Vanessa stared. Mrs. Sinclair blinked again—slow, calculating.

Roy looked at Dianne like he was seeing her for the first time.

But Karen recovered first.

“Well,” she said brightly, “ambition takes many forms. Speaking of ambition—Roy, did you get the invitation to the gala next month? Mother told me I should remind you. They’re expecting you and…” Her smile flicked to Dianne. “Your partner.”

Mrs. Sinclair stiffened. Vanessa leaned back, arms crossed.

Roy didn’t flinch. “Yes. Dianne will be attending with me.”

Karen’s smile faltered—just for a moment.

Before she could respond, a loud crack of thunder rattled the windows. Everyone jolted slightly. Rain began hitting the glass in heavy sheets, turning the outside world into a blur.

The distraction broke the tension—but only for a moment.

Mrs. Sinclair laid her napkin down with finality. “Dinner is over,” she said, her voice clipped. “We will… continue this conversation tomorrow.”

The family stood in a synchronized, elegant motion. Dianne rose more slowly, her legs a bit unsteady from the pressure of the evening.

As they moved toward the hallway, Karen casually stepped beside Roy, looping her arm through his—but he gently shifted away, placing a protective hand on Dianne’s lower back instead.

Karen’s eyes darkened. Vanessa noticed—and smirked.

Mrs. Sinclair watched the interaction with thinly veiled displeasure.

Dianne felt the shift. A tectonic one.

They walked in silence down the long hallway, the echoes of the disastrous dinner still clinging to them. When they reached Roy’s room, he closed the door gently behind them and exhaled, shoulders sagging as though he’d been holding the world up all evening.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Dianne looked up at him. The guilt in his eyes was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry for everything my family said. For how they treated you. For how they made you feel.” His voice cracked faintly. “My mum… she’s been trying so hard to maintain some image of the Sinclair legacy ever since my dad passed. She believes she’s protecting something important. But it doesn’t excuse any of tonight.”

Dianne swallowed, her anger softening into something more complicated. “Roy… I know she’s grieving in her own way. But it doesn’t make it right.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I should have stepped in more. I should’ve done better. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Silence drifted between them—softer, calmer than the silence at the dining table. Dianne sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her palms together. Roy hesitated, then reached for the extra blanket on the dresser and walked toward the couch.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, voice gentle. “You take the bed. You need the comfort more than I do.”

She watched him lie down, adjusting himself uncomfortably on the small couch. Minutes passed. The storm outside continued, a steady hum against the windows. Dianne stared at the ceiling, her thoughts circling, replaying the insults, the pressure, the tension. But the image that lingered most was Roy—stepping between her and his family, voice steady, choosing her.

Another minute passed.

Then she sighed. “Roy?”

He sat up slightly. “Yeah?”

Her voice was quieter this time. “Come to the bed.”

He froze. “Dianne, I—I don’t want you to feel pressured. I don’t want to cross any lines.”

“You won’t.” She shifted, making space beside her. “Just… maintain boundaries. Stay on your side. I just… don’t want to sleep alone tonight. Not after everything.”

Roy stood slowly, watching her carefully as if afraid to misread anything. When he reached the bed, he lifted the blanket and lay down, keeping a respectful distance, his body angled away so she wouldn’t feel crowded.

She turned slightly toward him, enough to feel his presence but not enough to touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” His voice was almost a breath.

“For being on my side.”

Roy closed his eyes, his jaw softening. “Always,” he murmured.

The storm outside raged on, but inside the room, something steadier settled between them—a quiet understanding, fragile but warm.

And for the first time that night, Dianne finally felt safe enough to sleep.