Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
When Graham returned home that evening around seven o'clock, he looked every bit the master of the universe. He was tall, silver-tempered at the temples, wearing a tailored navy suit that cost more than most people earned in a month. He set his leather briefcase on the marble entryway table, pulled off his silk tie, and let out a theatrical sigh of exhaustion.
"Long day at the firm, Cath," he said without looking at me, walking straight toward the wet bar in the living room. "The board is driving me crazy over the gala arrangements. If the seating chart isn't finalized by midnight, the press coordinator is going to drop the ball."
He poured himself two fingers of single-malt whiskey, swirling the amber liquid against the crystal glass. He didn't ask about Lily. He didn't ask if her fever had returned, or if I had managed to get more than two hours of sleep.
"I checked our family credit card statement today," I said quietly, sitting at the dining room table with my arms folded across my chest.
Graham took a slow sip of his drink, his back still turned toward me. His shoulders remained relaxed, but I noticed the subtle tightening of his right hand around the base of his glass.
"Did you?" he asked smoothly. "Find anything interesting?"
"Velloura Bridal," I replied. "Eighteen hundred dollars."
He paused for a fraction of a second, his reflection caught in the dark glass of the bar mirror. Then, he turned around, a faint, patronizing smirk playing on his lips. He let out a soft, amused chuckle, as if I had just brought up a minor miscommunication about the utility bill.
"You actually called the boutique?" he asked, shaking his head. "Catherine, honestly, you need to curb this habit of micro-managing our records. It’s unseemly."
"White satin wedding shoes, Graham," I said, keeping my gaze locked onto his face. "Size seven. Delivered directly to the Presidential Suite at the Plaza Hotel this coming Saturday. Addressed to Bianca Vale."
For one single heartbeat, the polished, untouchable mask of Graham Hart shattered completely. His eyes widened, his pupils contracting as his breath caught in his throat. The easy confidence drained from his face, leaving behind the pale, defensive glare of a cornered animal.
Then, just as quickly, the wall went back up. He straightened his spine, took a deliberate step toward the table, and set his glass down with a heavy, deliberate thud.
"You've embarrassed yourself," he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, cold register.
No apology. No panic. No attempt to construct a plausible lie. Just an immediate, practiced attempt to turn the shame back onto me.
"I embarrassed myself?" I asked softly.
"You are seriously overreacting to an administrative expense," he said, resting his palms on the edge of the table and leaning down until he was hovering over me. "Bianca is coordinating the entire VIP staging for the gala. She needed specific wardrobe accessories for the host staff as part of the theatrical opening sequence. It was processed on the master card because the foundation's entertainment account was temporarily undergoing an audit."
It was a flimsy, pathetic lie, constructed on the fly by a man who had never been held accountable in his entire adult life.
"So your junior executive needs eighteen-hundred-dollar designer wedding shoes to organize a charity dinner?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't be ridiculous, Catherine," he snapped, waving his hand dismissively as he straightened back up. "You're tired. You've been staying up all night with Lily, and your imagination is running away with you. I don't have time to indulge your insecurities two days before the biggest night of my professional career."
He picked up his whiskey glass, turned on his heel, and walked upstairs toward his private study, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed family portraits in the hallway.
May you like
I sat in the dark dining room, listening to the muffled sound of his footsteps overhead. Eleven years of my life—eleven years of accommodating his mood swings, overlooking his long absences, and subordinating my own legal career to support his public ambitions—had come down to this moment.
I stood up, walked quietly into my father's old study at the back of the ground floor, and retrieved a small brass key from my jewelry box.
