I pick at the creamy broth before me, not feigning my disinterest. Typical how Mom chose to add the soup I dislike to the menu. The spoon glides listlessly through the lukewarm liquid as my mind wanders to the strange situation I have found myself in.

Something doesn’t feel right, and it has nothing to do with this unappealing dish before me. I can’t help but notice the odd situation surrounding me. My eyes trail over to where Mother is sitting, back straight against the high-back chair. Lucile Adelaide Warren had never looked out of place a day in her life.

Born and raised among the stuffy elite class, she’s an image of well-placed elegance posing as the perfect figurehead for the quintessential high-society bride.

An aristocratic Barbie—born rich, raised rich, to marry rich.

Taking in the custom-made royal blue silk and lace gown molding her petite frame and the flowing golden blonde hair cascading down her arched back, one could easily confuse her delicate nature for angelic. Her innocuous doll-like features and charming personality hid a camouflaged snake lying in wait to strike. My years of living with her taught me never to underestimate her actions, and this misleading sham of a dinner where she played the perfect host had my hackles rising. She delicately rang the bell for the third course to be served, smiling at the servants like they were her close friends. I narrowed my eyes on her and—though I didn’t want to admit it—I saw some of the reasons my dad was crazy about her. A middle-aged lady who had the ever-brimming radiance of a teenager entering youth, I saw what made Dad obsessed with her.

When he was alive, Dad would ramble on and on about how he met her. A young guy branching out into the world of business with a few recipes for homemade wine and nothing to his name, he had been invited by a friend to a business gala. Upon arrival, he’d spotted her standing before an array of desserts, turning up her nose at something. Entranced and sporting youthful arrogance, he’d approached—only for Lucile to further turn up her dainty nose at him before striding out with a cruel smirk on her lips. According to him, he never forgot her, not a single day in the five years it took him to make it big, working himself to the bone.

He had gone after her with relentless determination, and she in turn favored other gentlemen, completely ignoring his advances until he became the top dog in the wine industry. Dad grew up in wealth—his parents ran a fruit orchard spanning miles, with vast categories of fruits. Regardless of their successful business, they were humble people at heart, preferring quiet country life to anything else. He was the one to change their flourishing business into something extraordinary. After all the back and forth, he’d finally married my narcissistic mother. She went along with it because he was wealthy. He had doted on her, loving her manipulative nature selflessly without complaint for years—even after I came into their life.

In her own twisted way, I know she loved Father, because her hatred for me worsened after his death. She always hated how close we were, throwing fits and tantrums that my dad looked at with fond indulgence. He served as a buffer for us. After his death, there was no one to make us tolerate each other. To her, I took away the only being that loved her unconditionally, who made her dreams come true—and nothing could ever forgive that. After the only reason we saw eye to eye was snatched from us, I moved out of my room, taking up another wing of the house in a bid to see less of Lucile.

The arrangement worked perfectly for us. Unless in case of emergency, we never met, hardly spoke to each other, while also doing our best to ignore each other’s existence. That is why I was so surprised to come home and see an elegant tea-length yellow gown on my bed with a note attached that read: 'Wear this'

My lovely mother was never nice to anyone unless she stood to benefit from it—adding to my already piling suspicion of this dinner and the unusual guests present. At the far side of the table sat my maternal grandfather, perched at the head of the table like he belonged there. He took over the business after Dad’s passing, and that seemed to make him think that he had full rights over everything my dad had. He smiled politely at a gray-haired older man sitting by his side. He wore a crisp suit tailored to his small frame, and his oily gaze slid my way more times than I could count today.

Beside him sat a middle-aged woman wearing a deep blue gown encrusted with stones. I was sure they were real diamonds. She sat placidly at her husband’s side, picking at the steak we were served right after the soup.

What made me the most uncomfortable wasn’t just the presence of guests that we rarely had, nor was it my grandfather’s unusually friendly nature—when I knew he was cut from the same cloth as my mother.

No.

What had me anxious and rattled was the younger guy that sat beside the woman I assumed to be his mother. Since his arrival, he had hardly taken his eyes off me, staring at me like a prized collection waiting in the aisle to be snatched up with his grubby hands. Some would consider his freckled face, Italian accent, and pale features admiring—but not me. I did not appreciate the possessive glint in his eyes, nor did I welcome the lascivious attention his father occasionally tossed my way. I felt like a prized fowl in their presence, ready for auction. I shivered, my attention going back to the conversation that flowed over the table, completely ignoring me.

“...for taking the initiative with our children. Really, Arthur!” the man praised him, obviously referring to Grandfather. “This will more than foster our business relationship, benefiting both families greatly. We will be unstoppable, and our lineage will dominate generations in the wine industry.” He laughed, his surprisingly boisterous voice echoing in the room.

Grandfather puffed up like an overfed peacock, laughing in tandem. I think he’d referred to him as Montgomery at one point. “I am telling you, nothing could create a stronger alliance than marriage,” he proclaimed, his gaze turning toward me, lingering too long on my bosom before heartily turning back to the conversation.

“Your girl is of quality stock,” he nodded appreciatively. “Knows her place like a good woman should. Not this nonsense about feminism going around these days. She... ” he crows.

But I wasn’t paying attention anymore. Not when the ringing in my ear was far louder than their voices could ever be.

I couldn’t hear past the word marriage. My brain could not process quickly whether it was due to the shock or the sudden realization that I was engaged—without my prior notice or consent.

“Darryla.”

“Darra!” Voices called out to me at some point, sounding far away and faded.

“Darra. Darra!” an unfamiliar voice snapped, close to my ear.

My thoughts snapped to a standstill as I observed the figure too close to mine. My betrothed. I looked away, my eyes darting to my feet to see myself standing. Reality dawned then—my feet had unconsciously carried me close to the exit. I looked back at the table to see numerous eyes on me, my family casting judgmental gazes, the staff wearing concerned but confused looks. Even Montgomery's were looking on curiously—and, apparently, that was the final straw.

Hoping to escape their piercing gazes and not letting myself think twice about my action, I snatched my wrist free and made a dash for the exit, abandoning their penetrating stares behind.