He was nervous.
Behind him came Judith Whitmore, my mother-in-law, wrapped in cream cashmere and cold judgment. Judith had money the way some women wore perfume—so heavily that it filled every room before they even spoke. Diamonds at her ears. Perfect blond bob. Mouth pulled into that familiar, thin expression she used whenever she looked at me, as though my very existence offended her sense of order.
And then there was the other woman.
Tall. Beautiful. Carefully dressed. Not in anything outrageous—nothing as obvious as red lipstick and a cheap dress. No, this woman wore pale blue silk and understated jewelry, the kind that whispered old money instead of shouting for attention. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never once in her life doubted she belonged wherever she chose to stand.
Her name was Vanessa Hale.
