Linda, my mother-in-law, dominated the middle of the room like a Coast Guard icebreaker shouldering its way through Arctic pack ice. She wore a floor-length brocade gown and enough gold to make me genuinely worry about the long-term health of her spine.
Jason abandoned me the second we crossed the threshold.
“Wait here. I need to say hello to the important people,” he muttered, and then he vanished into a glittering current of tuxedo jackets and expensive cologne.
Katie, his sister, drifted toward me next. Katie was the sort of girl who would have believed Alice was an influencer if someone showed her a black-and-white photo with a quote underneath.
“Oh, Emily!” She looked me up and down with a smile sharp enough to curdle cream. “Why are you so… gloomy? Did Jason forget to give you money for a stylist?”
“I’ve always preferred natural beauty, Katie.”
“Sure. Of course.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice, her smile turning predatory. “Mom asked me to tell you something. Don’t sit at the main table. There’s a seating plan. Partners, investors, useful people. No room.”
“And where exactly am I supposed to sit?” My fingers had gone cold before I finished the question.
“Over there.” She flicked one manicured hand toward the far corner, near the kitchen doors. “With the photographers and the sound guy. You’ll hear everything perfectly from there, and you won’t be in anyone’s way.”
Then she pivoted neatly on her heels and fluttered back into the crowd.
I made my way to Table 15. It wobbled when I touched it. A massive speaker stood beside it, thundering out Greg’s bass line directly into my skull. A gloomy audio technician sat there alone, chewing a tartlet as if it had personally disappointed him.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
“Sit down, ma’am,” he grunted. “Just don’t complain about the volume.”
An hour passed. Jason did not look in my direction once.
He sat at his mother’s right hand, pouring wine, throwing his head back as he laughed, glowing under the chandeliers like a man exactly where he belonged. Money, influence, flattery—those were his natural elements.
Meanwhile I sat in the corner like a poor relation dragged in from some forgotten town, though I had been born in a perfectly respectable downtown neighborhood. The servers treated me as if I were part of the wiring. They bypassed our “technical” table with such polished skill that I almost admired them for it.
“Excuse me!” I tried to catch a passing waitress by the edge of her apron. “Could I have some water, please?”
“We’re serving the banquet in order. Wait your turn,” she snapped, without even turning her head.
The sound guy gave a dry little snort.
“Don’t waste your breath. We’re décor over here. Want a sandwich? I brought some.”
He pulled a plastic container from his backpack, packed with homemade sandwiches. The smell of processed meat rolled out, and my stomach lurched.
I kept watching my husband.
Jason was leaning toward a gray-haired man in an expensive suit, arguing some point with feverish intensity. The man listened with lazy nods, as if Jason were a radio playing in another room.
Then Linda tapped her fork against a glass.
The room quieted at once.
“My dear friends!” Her voice, enlarged by the microphone, swelled into every corner of the restaurant. “Today, I am truly happy. Everyone I love is here. My son, my daughter, my partners!”
She spent nearly ten minutes naming people. Guests, colleagues, associates, benefactors—each one polished and displayed aloud.
I was not among them.
At best, I existed as “Jason’s wife,” an accessory attached to his public image, one they had decided to tuck away in a closet for the evening.
When the toasts began, I decided I should at least offer my congratulations.