Chapter 16: The First Family Dinner

POV: IVY

My first family dinner as Michael Sterling’s wife began with a compliment and ended with everyone questioning whether I deserved the name I was wearing.

For two solid days after my conversation with Michael, I locked myself in the east wing suite with Gemma’s black binder, flashcards, and handwritten notes. I memorized the history of the Sterling and Sterling-Vance families, drilled myself on ancestral holiday homes in the Hamptons, and reviewed every major family gathering from the past decade. If I was going to survive a dinner under the sharp scrutiny of Michael’s parents, I couldn't afford a single slip-up.

When Thursday evening arrived, I wore a modest, high-necked emerald velvet dress that matched Gemma’s precise style, pairing it with minimal jewelry so the heavy diamond ring on my finger stood out like a warning beacon.

The private dining room at the Sterling family estate was a masterclass in intimidation. High mahogany ceilings, towering crystal candelabras, and a long mahogany table set with heavy sterling silver created an atmosphere more like a courtroom than a family meal.

Michael’s parents, Richard and Olivia Sterling, sat at opposite ends of the table. Richard was a formidable man with silver-streaked hair and cold, calculating eyes that mirrored his son’s; Olivia was a tall, impeccably groomed woman whose jewelry cost more than a suburban home and whose gaze missed absolutely nothing.

For the first hour, the dinner actually went smoothly.

I played my part with chilling precision. I smiled politely, kept my posture rigid, used the correct forks, and answered Richard’s inquiries about the real estate merger with calculated, high-society aplomb. Michael sat across the table, observing my performance in silence, his expression unreadable as he cut his steak with measured grace.

“You’ve certainly matured since the Newport charity gala last summer, Gemma,” Olivia remarked, taking a delicate sip of her white wine as a faint, approving smile touched her lips. “Your mother always said you were flighty, but handling this merger seems to have anchored you.”

“Thank you, Olivia,” I replied smoothly, lowering my eyes with just enough modest hesitation to sell the illusion. “Marriage brings a new perspective.”

Across the table, Michael’s aunt, Beatrice, a sharp-nosed woman with a reputation for gossip, tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied me over her glass.

“Speaking of the past, Gemma,” Beatrice said, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet hum of the room. “Your mother mentioned you spent that dreadful rainy two-week holiday stranded at our family chalet in Vermont when you were sixteen. Do you remember how furious your uncle was when you flooded the third-floor guest bathroom?”

The blood drained instantly from my face.

My mind raced backward, frantically flipping through the mental index of Gemma’s files. Vermont chalet. Sixteen years old. Third-floor guest bathroom. It was nowhere in the binder. Evelyn had never mentioned it, and Gemma certainly hadn't written down a childhood plumbing disaster in her corporate notes.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the table. Everyone paused, turning their attention toward me, waiting for the memory, the laugh, the shared family joke.

I swallowed hard, trying to force my voice to remain steady. “Ah... yes. That feels like a lifetime ago. Things were... a bit chaotic back then.”

It was a vague, defensive dodge. In high society, vagueness was treated like a confession.

Aunt Beatrice’s eyebrows arched sharply. “You don't sound very sure, my dear. Most people don't forget flooding an entire wing of a historical estate. Did the champagne at the reception hit you early tonight?”

Richard Sterling frowned, his gray eyes darkening with irritation as he looked toward his son. Michael’s jaw tightened. He turned his stormy gaze upon me, his eyes flashing with a cold, piercing suspicion that made my stomach drop. The irritation radiating from him was palpable; he hated incompetence, and he hated public embarrassment even more.

“Gemma has always had a selective memory when it comes to childhood mishaps,” Michael intervened smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the tension with effortless authority, though his eyes remained fixed on me with a silent warning. “Let’s not interrogate my wife over a plumbing accident from a decade ago.”

The subject was dropped, but the damage was done. The air at the table grew heavy with unspoken doubt.

As the main course was cleared away and the silver dessert spoons were laid out, Olivia casually steered the conversation toward darker waters. She dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, looking directly at her son.

“By the way, Michael, your father and I saw the society columns this morning,” Olivia said, her tone deceptively sweet. “That little public relations issue with your former companion, Melanie, continues to linger in the papers. Is she still lingering in your social life as well?”

Michael didn't blink. He took a slow sip of his water before answering. “Melanie’s position has not changed, Mother. My private affairs do not concern the board.”

“They concern the family name when she acts like a permanent fixture,” Olivia snapped back, her eyes flashing with aristocratic disdain. “You are a married man now, Michael. You cannot afford to keep a mistress parading through the city like a second wife. It makes Gemma look foolish, and it makes our family look weak.”

I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring down at my untouched dessert plate. They were arguing about Melanie as if I weren't even sitting at the table, treating me simultaneously as a necessary shield and an embarrassing accessory.

By the time the dinner finally drew to a close, my nerves were completely frayed. I had survived the Vermont trap, but the chilling realization of how close I had come to breaking the illusion left me shaking inside.

We stood in the grand entryway of the Sterling estate as our coats were brought out. Michael was speaking quietly with his father near the double doors, finalizing some corporate logistics for the following week.

I stood near the marble pillars, waiting patiently, when Olivia suddenly stepped up beside me. She looped her arm through mine with a grip that was surprisingly firm for a woman her age, pulling me slightly apart from the men.

Her cool, diamond-ringed fingers pressed against my forearm. When she leaned down, her voice dropped into a low, venomous hiss that only I could hear.

“Gemma,” Olivia whispered, her sharp eyes boring straight into mine with terrifying clarity. “If you are hiding something from my son, or if you think you can make a fool of this family, you should pray he never discovers it. Because Michael is not nearly as forgiving as I am.”