Riverside Heights Always Talks

CHAPTER THREE — Riverside Heights Always Talks

POV: Elena

By morning, Marcus acted as though nothing had happened.

If he’d recognized what he’d seen reflected in the hallway mirror, he gave no indication of it. He kissed my cheek before leaving for the studio, complained about the bridge traffic the way he always did, and texted me around noon to ask whether we were still bringing the same bottle of Pinot to the Hawthorne Foundation gala that evening.

Normal. Everything was terrifyingly normal. And somehow, that smooth, unblemished surface unsettled me more than a confession would have.

I spent the afternoon at the clinic, moving through appointments on pure muscle memory. Mrs. Patterson's blood pressure came back drastically improved, a local teenager needed twelve stitches after a skateboarding accident, and an elderly man insisted he felt perfectly fine despite having ignored crushing chest pain for three straight days.

People lied to doctors all the time. Not always maliciously; sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of deep shame, sometimes simply because they desperately wanted their reality to be something other than what it was.

By the time I got home to dress for the gala, my shoulders were tight with exhaustion. Marcus, by contrast, seemed unusually energized. He hummed a jazz tune as he adjusted his tie, taking longer than usual, selecting a watch from his display case.

"You know we're just attending a fundraiser, not accepting an Oscar," I teased, leaning against the closet doorframe.

He grinned into the mirror. "Image is everything, El."

"So says the creative director."

"And the brilliant woman in the sapphire dress says what?"

"That you're ridiculous."

He turned, kissing my forehead with comfortable warmth. "And yet you love me."

I smiled, letting the silence answer for me.

Riverside Heights loved events like this—half charity, half social bloodsport. Everyone spent the night pretending not to notice who had donated the most, who had quietly renovated their kitchen, or whose children had gotten into Ivy League schools. The country club ballroom buzzed with high-pitched laughter, and the rhythmic clinking of crystal as familiar faces greeted us from every direction.

"There they are!" Victor called out from the edge of the lounge.

Thelma hurried over to embrace me, her arms squeezing a beat too tightly, her perfume overwhelming. "You look absolutely beautiful, Elena."

"So do you."

But something about her posture was rigid. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and her gaze flicked toward Marcus before darting quickly back to me, her fingers fluttering at her pearl necklace.

"Everything okay, Thelma?" I asked quietly, stepping closer.

She opened her mouth, her voice dropping to a rushed whisper. "Elena, there's something you should—"

"Thelma." Victor appeared beside us with practised ease, his hand settling firmly on his wife's shoulder. "Darling, they need you over at the silent auction table right now. Remember?"

Thelma blinked, the colour draining from her cheeks. "Right. Of course."

"But—"

Victor squeezed her arm. It wasn't hard, not enough for anyone else in the crowded room to notice, but her posture instantly stiffened. "Come on, sweetheart."

She looked back at me once, an uneasy, pleading look flickering across her face before she forced a sharp smile and let him pull her into the shifting crowd.

Strange. Very strange.

I was still trying to dissect that look when movement across the ballroom caught my attention.

Marcus stood near the mahogany bar, drink in hand, throwing his head back in a laugh. That wasn't unusual on its own; Marcus laughed with everyone. But the woman beside him wasn't anyone from our usual social circles. She was younger than us by at least a decade, wearing an elegant, form-fitting emerald dress, her blonde hair falling in loose, polished waves over her shoulders. Beautiful. Radiating confidence.

He leaned closer as she whispered something, and her fingers lightly touched his arm—not a tentative, flirtatious gesture, but a natural, familiar one. Like she’d done it a thousand times before. Marcus laughed again, his shoulders dropping easily.

I hated myself for noticing the distance between them. I hated myself more for staying rooted to the floor, continuing to watch.

"Elena?"

I turned to find Claire Bennett from the Riverside Art Gallery smiling at me, a champagne flute held between her manicured fingers. We traded the usual pleasantries—work, the heat, the catering—while my attention kept drifting back toward the bar like a compass needle pointing north.

Eventually, I nodded casually toward the pair. "Who is that with Marcus?"

Claire followed my gaze, her expression shifting instantly into something cautious. "Oh. That's Sophia Lang."

The name meant nothing to me. Claire lowered her voice, leaning in until I could smell the wine on her breath. "Her family funds half this room. Real estate development money, enormous old wealth. Sweet girl, though. She's been hanging around the creative crowd lately. Marcus did some extensive branding work for one of their luxury developments, I believe."

Sophia Lang. The long blonde hair. The corporate credit card statement. My evening clutch suddenly felt twice as heavy on my shoulder.

Across the room, Sophia laughed at something Marcus murmured. He looked completely relaxed, comfortable—not like a businessman entertaining a high-profile client, but like a man thoroughly enjoying himself in his own skin.

I took a slow sip of champagne, then another, before the clinical side of my brain intervened. No assumptions. Questions first, diagnosis later.

I set down my glass on a passing tray, smoothed the silk of my dress, and excused myself from Claire. I crossed the ballroom floor slowly, my heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood, feeling an odd, icy calm wash over me.

Marcus spotted me first. His smile faltered—just a microscopic hitch in his jaw before he recovered.

Sophia turned toward me, her expression still bright with laughter, and then I saw it.

Recognition. Not the polite curiosity you show a stranger. Total, instant recognition.

Before either of them could utter a word, I extended my hand, my smile warm, open, and perfectly practised.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Elena." I let my eyes flick briefly to Marcus, then right back to her. "Marcus's wife."

Sophia Lang's face went entirely white, just for one silent second.

Then she recovered.