The lilacs were in bloom, and the lawn looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine. White tents, linen‑covered tables, trays of shrimp and champagne weaving through a sea of polite laughter. I stood near the hydrangeas in the same navy blue dress I’d worn to my last church fundraiser, trying to look like I belonged.
Grant found me there. He looked taller than I remembered, his suit crisp, his smile bright, though it never quite reached his eyes. He leaned in to hug me, one arm around my shoulder—warm but hurried.
“Enjoying the $8,000 a month, Mom?” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon. I blinked. “What?” I asked, but it came out softer than I meant.
He smiled, thinking I hadn’t heard the transfers. “Hope it’s making life easier.”
My heart clenched. “Grant,” I said.
“Steady, but low. I’m working two jobs.”
His smile faltered. “I clean the courthouse three mornings a week, and I shelve books at the library six nights out of seven.
I haven’t seen a dollar from you.”
From across the yard, Sabine’s head turned. Her wine glass, midair, tipped slightly in her hand. For a second, everything seemed to slow.
The servers paused. The laughter dimmed. Even the birds quieted.
Her gaze met mine. I watched something flicker behind her eyes. Not surprise, not concern—calculation.
Grant’s arm dropped from my shoulder. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His brow furrowed as he looked toward his wife, confusion settling in like fog.
Sabine slowly turned her back to us and disappeared into the house. I stood alone again among the lilacs, heart racing, unsure whether I’d just imagined it all, until Grant took a sharp breath beside me and said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
I stood on their back patio, surrounded by people whose names I couldn’t remember and whose smiles didn’t reach me. Everything smelled faintly of garden roses, expensive perfume, and a wine I couldn’t pronounce.
Sabine floated from guest to guest like a hostess in a dream, laughing softly, touching arms lightly, her sundress crisp and white like fresh linen. You’d think the world belonged to her. Maybe it did.
I watched her refill glasses and pose for photos beside Grant as if nothing had just happened. Not a flicker of unease crossed her face. She was practiced, polished, impenetrable.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
