Page 38 of Iridescent
Xavier freezes. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he drags his eyes up to meet mine. In that split second, his mask slips. I see it flare in those whiskey-colored eyes—guilt, panic, a desperate plea not to do this here.
It’s gone in an instant, so fast I almost think I imagined it.
He forces a tight smile. “Oui, bien sûr,” he says, his voice low. Of course.
His answer comes in French, an automatic reversion to the language of his childhood under stress. It doesn’t matter which language he speaks. I understand them all, and I hear the lie as plainly as everyone else does.
An awkward chuckle or two sounds, and the table's chatter haltingly resumes. Utensils scrape against china. Someone asks Alejandro about the upcoming harvest season at the vineyard, and the moment passes for everyone. Everyone except me and the man who used to be my partner in all things.
I drop my eyes to my plate. The porcelain is artfully arranged with the second course: veal tenderloin, rosemary butter, a drizzle of wine sauce. It looks perfect. Untouched. I can't stomach a single bite. I push a cherry tomato to the edge of the plate and watch the smear of red it leaves behind.
Xavier murmurs something to his brother, feigning interest in talk of business or wine—whatever safe topic he can cling to. He doesn’t notice that I’m watching him now. I see the tension in his shoulders he thinks he’s hiding, the way his fingers drum once against the table before going still. Little tells. He’s nervous. Fear has a scent, and I swear I can smell it on him.
Another trill of laughter rises from Guinevere's end of the table, crystal-bright and a touch too fueled by champagne. She dabs at the corner of hermouth with her napkin and beams at Isabel. "Tell me, darling, will you be staying long this time? We've missed you so." Her tone is warm, almost adoring. "You mustn't run off again like you did before."
A jovial uncle down the way chimes in, wagging a finger. "Unless our Isa needed a little break from this crazy family!" A few people laugh. I catch Élise rolling her eyes subtly at the old man and it almost makes me smile.
Isabel tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, offering a polite smile. "I'm not sure yet. There are...many things to figure out now."
Guinevere clucks softly. "Nonsense. We all knew why you left, chérie." She raises her nearly empty glass and winks conspiratorially. "The poor girl was in love."
The words land like a grenade in the center of the table. I feel them hit me in the chest, a concussive force that nearly knocks the air from my lungs. The genteel clinking of silverware dies. A hush falls so sudden and heavy, it's like the whole room holds its breath.
Alejandro’s brows draw together. “Guinevere,” he says under his breath, a warning threaded through his voice. “That’s enough.”
Guinevere waves him off, tipsy and oblivious—or simply cruel in her glee. “Oh, come now. I’m only teasing. It was ages ago.” She turns her glittering gaze pointedly to me, her head tilting. “You understand, don’t you, Yara? Young love and all that drama. Our Xavier was positively unbearable that summer. Mon Dieu, he moped for weeks after she left. We thought he’d never recover.”
I forget how to breathe.
Over twenty pairs of eyes dart between me, my husband, and the woman in red. My pulse pounds in my ears like the bell before the first round.
He really did lie to me.
She isn’t his cousin.
She’s his fucking ex.
He spent our wedding anniversary with her while I sat home alone, waiting until my legs went numb and the food turned cold—while I was becoming an empty shell, still clinging to hope: to the dream of a child that never came, to the life we promised each other would be enough.
I questioned my own sanity, convinced I was imagining the distance while he was already gone.
How fucking bleak.
I clench my jaw until my teeth ache.
Xavier goes rigid, every muscle in his body locking tight. His jaw ticks. His hand tightens around his wine glass until his knuckles whiten. A faint clink sounds as his fork slips from his other hand and falls onto the plate.
“Mamá,” he warns. “Ça suffit.”That’s enough.
The temperature in the room plummets even more. Lucien clears his throat, looking like he very much wishes he could sink under the table. Élise's eyes are wide with alarm. Alejandro opens his mouth as if to interject, but no one gets a chance.
Guinevere just laughs, reaching for the champagne. "Relax, mon chéri. It was years before he even met his lovely wife." She says lovely wife as if it's an afterthought, tossing me a thin smile down the table.
I have become a ghost. A phantom. I can't feel the chair beneath me or the silk of my dress against my skin. My vision tunnels on Xavier and Isabel. On Xavier's stricken face and Isabel's lowered, embarrassed gaze. All the tiny pieces click into place with sickening clarity. This isn't just some old love the family likes to tease about. This is the girl who shattered his heart once.
The girl he never got over.
Lucien, likely trying to salvage the mood, flashes me a grin. “Didn’t you know, belle-sœur? Isa and Xavier were the romance du siècle. We all thought they’d end up together. Coup de foudre and all that.”
