The charity dinner had been a disaster from the moment we arrived. Eleanor Lockwood had seated me next to Isabelle Milton, a senator’s daughter, the woman Xander was supposed to have married. Beautiful, poised, dripping with old money and polite condescension. “So Diana,” Isabelle had said, her smile razor-sharp, “Alexander tells me you’re in hospitality. How quaint. I’ve always admired people who work with their hands.” The implication was clear. I was hired help. Staff. Not someone who belonged at a table with people like her. Xander had intervened smoothly, redirecting conversation, but the damage was done. The rest of the evening was a minefield of subtle insults and knowing glances. Eleanor watching me like a hawk. Vivienne smirking from across the table. Isabelle asking pointed questions about my family, my education, my “charming” Brooklyn roots. By the time we left, my face hurt from maintaining a pleasant expression. The car ride home was silent. Xander stared out
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