Page 33 of Iridescent
That is all she permits.
I breathe in, letting the sensations wash over me: perfume and cologne intermingling in the air, the distant shift from strings to piano as the musicians transition, the rich aroma of roast duck drifting in from the kitchens.
A pair of children dash between clusters of adults, escaping some distant nanny’s grasp, their polished shoes skittering on the marble. Nearby, I catch snippets of conversation—someone boasting about a new yacht club in Nice, another complaining about traffic in Paris.
All around, the night hums with wealth and contentment.
I miss my family. I miss being known. My little sister, Althea, is back home in Greece with our yiayia, and it’s been ages since I last saw them.
They flew in for our wedding, and for weeks afterward, I swore I could still hear my yiayia’s voice echoing through the villa. Bossing the caterers around in Greek, telling the florists they had no sense of proportion, and warningXavier that if he ever made me cry, she’d haunt him with the full authority of every dead woman in our family.
Now it’s just phone calls. Sometimes video calls, when I’m brave enough. Lately, I haven’t been.
Yiayiá sees through everything. She’d take one look at my face and know something was wrong. Then she’d threaten to drag me back home to “fix” me. Her kind of therapy usually involves a shotgun, a target, or a punching bag.
I haven’t touched a punching bag since the accident.
I tell myself I’m past that life, that I don’t need to fight anymore. But sometimes my hands ache for the sting of impact, for the clean, violent certainty of it. Fighting was never just a career; it was the only language I spoke fluently, the only place I knew exactly who I was.
Now even the sight of a boxing ring makes my pulse stumble. I can’t step into one without feeling the ghost of that final blow crash through my ribs again.
Tonight, as I stand here smiling at people who’d rather see me break, I almost miss the sound of a fist meeting flesh.
Beneath the refined cheer, I sense something else. A quiet current running through it all. Every few minutes, Guinevere’s gaze flicks toward the main entrance. Others follow. They’re waiting. For what or whom, I’m not sure, but the anticipation is unmistakable if you know where to look.
Her smile is a touch too bright, her laughter a shade too quick. The only time it softens into something real is when she looks at the door. It’s the most animated I’ve seen my mother-in-law all night. Possibly the most alive I’ve seen her since I met her.
You’re imagining it, I chide myself. Maybe she’s always been this way, and I just didn’t see it. Or maybe I’m simply searching for cracks in their facade because I’m always on edge here.
Yet, I can’t shake the prickle of unease crawling along my skin. Even surrounded by noise and light and laughter, a chill settles deep in my bones.
As if something is about to happen.
I don’t have to wait long.
A sharp clack of heels echoes through the marble foyer, followed by the lowmurmur of staff greeting a late arrival. The effect is instantaneous. A hush falls over the nearest guests as heads turn, subtle but unmistakable, toward the entrance. The string quartet continues playing, but even the music seems to thin out.
Beside me, the aunt who’d been hounding me falls silent mid-sentence, her jaw slack. She leans in to whisper something to the woman at her elbow, eyes bright with the thrill of fresh gossip.
Curious, I lean just enough to see what has everyone so transfixed.
A tall figure appears through the arched doorway, and it’s as if a movie star has stepped into the room.
The newcomer is dressed in a long-sleeved crimson ensemble with a daring neckline. Silk, if the way it catches the light is anything to go by. It drapes her from throat to toe, a bold choice that draws every eye. Her blonde hair falls in artfully styled waves past her shoulders.
She’s beautiful in that effortless way that comes from old money, slender and graceful, with the kind of perfection that makes everyone else feel underdressed.
She pauses just beyond the threshold, lips curved in a poised smile as she takes in the crowd. There's a subtle hesitation to her stance, as if she wasn't entirely sure about coming and only just convinced herself to step inside.
Guinevere is at her side in an instant, beaming more radiantly than I knew she could. Alejandro follows close behind with a broad smile of his own.
“Ma chère, you made it!” Guinevere exclaims, clasping the young woman’s hands before drawing her in for a kiss on each cheek. “How are you holding up, querida? I’m so sorry about your father.”
Her father.
Is this the cousin Xavier spoke about?
“It’s been… hard,” the woman says, her voice soft, tinged with a Spanish accent.
