Page 31 of Iridescent
I bite back a grin and blow him a tiny, teasing kiss.
His mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smile, that familiar glint of amusement flickering in his eyes.
In that look, an entire conversation passes between us.
Later, he promises.When we’re home. We’ll finish what we started.
I can’t wait,I mouth back, then wink.
We’ve been tiptoeing around the wreckage between us, but tonight feels like a brief, aching regression to the beginning.
To the boy with sorrow caught behind his eyes, still uncertain what to do with the world. And the girl too reckless for self-preservation, foolish in her belief that she could make it gentler for him.
The memory lingers between us. I force myself to look away, hiding my smile behind the rim of my wineglass.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe we really will be okay.
My nerves ease, and I let out a slow breath.
I know we can still be happy, just the two of us. But I ache for more.
I already buried one dream. I refuse to bury this one too.
Someday, maybe, I’ll see him holding our child in his arms. Until then, we just have to keep choosing each other.
A burst of laughter nearby pulls me out of my thoughts. I square my shoulders, smoothing my expression into one of contentment. Tonight, I’mnot going to brood. I can worry about everything else tomorrow.
Tonight, I’ll drink good wine, cling to my husband’s smile, and survive this circus of a dinner.
The air in the ballroom is warm with laughter and the clink of crystal. Chandeliers scatter golden light over the upper echelons of the French Riviera and Manhattan elite, illuminating a familiar tableau of wealth, lineage, and polished indifference.
The high-ceilinged room is all marble floors and tall windows draped in burgundy velvet. By the grand fireplace, beneath a massive oil portrait of some long-dead Navarro ancestor, Xavier’s parents hold court.
Geneviève and Alejandro Navarro exude effortless authority. She wears an exquisite ivory cocktail dress and a strand of pearls, while he wears a sharp black suit accented by a silk pocket square. They greet each new guest with her double-cheek kisses and his warm pats on the back, their gracious smiles perfected over years of performance.
Money and pedigree radiate off them in tandem with a rot no amount of refinement can disguise.
I wonder if they are still the same imperious hypocrites they were when I met them years ago.
My husband is no longer the son they can summon, silence, or shame into obedience. I am sure they know that by now.
Why is he still standing there instead of looking for Elise?
Near the gleaming mahogany bar on the left, I spot a cluster of Alejandro’s relatives—the Spanish contingent. They’re louder, more boisterous after several glasses of rioja, their laughter full-throated and genuine. Xavier’s Uncle Tomás gestures animatedly as he recounts a story, the others roaring at his jokes.
To the right, by the ornate French doors leading out to the moonlit terrace, Geneviève’s side of the family gathers in a comparably restrained fashion. The aunts and cousins there are the picture of understated elegance.
Muted tones. Polite smiles. Voices that never rise above a genteel murmur. Pearls and silk and air-kisses.
Two halves of the family blending under one roof, however uneasily.
And here I am, the odd one out entirely. Neither French nor Spanish, but a Greek girl from an island, trying to fit into their mosaic.
Across the room, I catch sight of Xavier’s older brother, Lucien.
He stands by the terrace doors, laughing as he hoists his youngest daughter onto his hip. The little girl squeals, her arms looped around her father’s neck, and the sight pulls a soft smile from me despite myself.
The Lucien I met years ago had been all arrogance and restless indulgence, the sort of man who treated responsibility like an unfortunate clause in a contract he never meant to sign. Parties, women, expensive liquor, inherited obligations he wore like an insult. No one would have mistaken him for a devoted family man then.
