Chapter 1 - The Misplaced Name Card
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The very first thing I saw when I entered the grand ballroom was not the glittering crystal chandelier, nor the opulent floral arrangements, nor even the bride, my sister-in-law Elodie, spinning nervously in her pearl-covered gown near the edge of the dance floor.
It was the woman casually sitting in my chair.
She was laughing, her head tilted back in a display of practiced joy, one manicured hand resting lightly and intimately on my husband’s suit sleeve. Her bright red dress glowed like a blaring warning sign under the warm, flattering lights of the Arden estate.
My own name card, printed on thick cream paper, had been deliberately moved to a small side table near the swinging kitchen doors, wedged awkwardly between a distant cousin who perpetually smelled of stale cigars and an elderly aunt who had once condescendingly asked me whether “career women” ever learned how to be gentle.
At the main family table, seated directly beside my husband, sat Bianca Ravel.
She was his mistress, his supposed “consultant,” his frequent late-night emergency. She was the woman he had aggressively sworn was only a business contact after I had confronted him with hotel charges in Burlington, intimate dinner receipts for two, and a damning photograph of her wearing the expensive silk scarf I had bought for him in Paris.
My mother-in-law, Genevieve Arden, saw me notice the seating arrangement. She smiled before I could even open my mouth to speak.
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That was the absolute worst part. Not the insult itself, but the sheer, arrogant confidence behind it. She stood near the head table in a shimmering silver gown, holding a glass of crisp white wine, her diamonds arranged across her throat like tiny, glittering weapons.
“We gave your seat to Bianca,” Genevieve said, her voice loud enough for the immediate family to hear perfectly, but soft enough to pretend it was a private aside. “Unlike you, Isla, she actually knows how to make my son feel alive.”
