Chapter 2

Silence fell over the room, heavy and absolute, lasting for three long seconds.

Victoria was the first to break it, her face twisting into an expression that suggested she had just heard a ridiculous joke.

"What did you just say? Do you have any idea how many girls from the best families are practically lining up to marry into our family?"

"Mom," Elliott interrupted.

He stood up and walked over to my side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. He leaned in, his voice dropping into that sweet, cajoling tone he used whenever he wanted to charm me.

"Freda, sweetheart, stop making a scene, okay? I know my mom can be insensitive. I'll talk to her later."

His hand was warm, his thumb gently rubbing my shoulder, like he was soothing a stray cat that had bared its claws.

In our three years together, this was always his move when I got angry. And every single time, I had softened.

But not today.

I pulled away from his touch, refusing to look at him. "Elliott, you just said my mom is 'used to serving people' and 'quick on her feet.' Do you honestly think there's nothing wrong with that sentence?"

He blinked, then let out a heavy, weary sigh. "I was just stating a fact. She works in home care and cleaning. Why are you acting like it's a dirty secret? Sweetheart, it's not like I look down on her."

When he called me "sweetheart," his voice was genuinely tender. But that tenderness was exactly what made my skin crawl. He truly, from the bottom of his heart, did not see the insult.

I turned to look at my dad. He had been sitting silently the entire time, his knuckles white around his water glass. The price tag on his new suit sleeve hadn't even been fully snipped off. Before we left, he had adjusted his tie in front of the mirror four times, asking my mom if he looked too old-fashioned.

Now, he looked up, his lips trembling slightly. He said only one thing: "Freda, let's go. We're done here."

The sound of his chair scraping against the hardwood floor was loud and harsh.

Elliott reached out to stop me, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. "Freda, are you seriously going to ruin everything over something so trivial—"

"Trivial?" I looked back at him. "You let your mother treat my mom like hired help, and you think that's trivial?"

His smooth facade cracked for a split second, but he quickly recovered, flashing that airy, bohemian smile that only artists can pull off. "Okay, okay. My bad. I apologize. I'll take you to that Italian place you love this weekend to make it up to you, deal?"

I didn't answer. I helped my parents up and walked out of the restaurant.