Page 29 of Iridescent
But the ones I dread most do not hide behind usernames. They stand beneath chandeliers in diamonds and pearls, waiting for blood. Let your guard slip for even a moment, and they’ll tear you apart, then call it concern.
I learned that the first time I set foot in my so-called in-laws’ home. They welcomed me with air kisses and brittle smiles, their eyes sharp as knives as they measured every inch of me and found it lacking.
Now I’m playing my part. I smile when I have to, nod when I’m expected to, and sip my wine between polite questions.
The woman droning in my ear confirms it. One of Xavier’s aunts, I think; there are too many relatives to keep straight. She has been talking for the past half hour without pausing for breath, all pearls and gray hair and blood-rednails, her heavy perfume buzzing in my skull like a trapped bee.
I catch only fragments about her accomplished children, gifted grandchildren, and the exhausting burden of keeping a family name respectable.
None of which I give a shit about.
Every word comes coated in syrupy sweetness. I wonder how much it’d cost to have her mouth stitched shut.
I bet Colette would volunteer, if only to put her excellent knife work and needling skills to charitable use.
I make a mental note to ask her later.
“Are you listening to me, dear?” the aunt asks, arching a penciled-in brow at me.
I snap to attention, tightening my grip on my wineglass. “Of course,” I lie smoothly.
She steamrolls on. “Remind me, how long have you been married to Xavier now? Two years?”
I have to fight the urge to snort at the cliché. A well-aimed barb masquerading as conversation. It will come back to how I do not measure up—somehow, some way.
For Xavier,I remind myself.
He is still speaking with Guinevere across the room, though speaking feels too generous for whatever this is. She has spent the better part of an hour keeping him pinned beneath that breathy voice of hers, smiling each time he tries to look past her toward Elise, as if every attempt to leave amuses her.
His posture remains immaculate, his expression carved into that flawless public mask he wears too well. If he finishes soon, we can leave before I start asking elderly women whether they prefer silk thread or fishing wire.
Clearing my throat, I correct her with a brittle smile. “Eight years. We met eight years ago in London. We’ve been married for four.”
“Ah, of course,” the woman replies, smiling with too many teeth and too little warmth. “Forgive me, Isabel. I lose track of time.”
Isabel?
My smile doesn’t budge, but something inside me flinches. “It’s Yara, actually,” I say, keeping my tone light and pleasant. “Like the letter beforeZ.” I face her properly and draw each letter in the air with one manicured finger. “Y. A. R. A.”
In case you’ve forgotten the alphabet, you old bat, I add silently, savoring the tiny jab.
She looks at me like I have grown three heads. Her mouth opens, too-white teeth flashing as she attempts the name.
I click my tongue, all gentle disappointment. “Almost. Let’s try again, Susie.”
Her expression collapses into pure scandal as she clutches her pearls. “My name isn’t Susie.”
I squint at her, pretending not to hear, then remember I do not, in fact, hear with my eyes.
A few people clustered around us chuckle softly, uncertain whether it is safe to laugh openly.
The aunt’s eyes flash with irritation before she waves a dismissive hand. “Oui, oui, Yara. Such a beautiful name,” she concedes, though I can tell it pains her. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she tilts her head. “And yet, still no children? Mon Dieu. I don’t know how you manage all that quiet in your house.”
The words drop into the chatter around us like a stone in a pond, soft in tone, sending ripples everywhere.
Don’t let it get to you.
Do. Not. Let. It. Get. To You.
