I felt a muscle twitch in my jaw—a micro-spasm of suppressed rage—but I kept my face blank. “I know who General Sterling is, Dad.”
“I doubt it,” my father snapped. “You wouldn’t know real leadership if it bit you on the leg. Just stay in the back and keep that cheap dress out of the official photos.”
My mother, Sylvia, drifted over then. She was a woman who viewed cruelty as a necessary social skill, a way to prune the weak from her garden. She was holding a large glass of red wine, filled to the brim, and wearing a silver gown that cost more than the down payment on my first car. She didn’t smile at me. She just frowned at a loose thread on my shoulder.
“Fix your posture, Elena,” she said, her voice sharp. “You’re slouching. It makes you look defeated.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said.
“You’re not fine. You’re invisible,” she countered. “Oh, look. Your brother needs a refill. Move out of the way. You’re blocking the path to the bar.”
She made a shooing motion with her manicured hand, a dismissal she had perfected over decades. As she did, she took a step forward and stumbled on the edge of the plush carpet. It was a performance worthy of daytime television. The glass of red wine in her hand didn’t just spill; it launched.
A crimson wave crashed directly onto the front of my dress. The cold liquid soaked through the cheap synthetic fabric instantly, running down my stomach, pooling in the fabric at my waist, and dripping onto my shoes.
The chatter in the immediate area stopped. The jazz band seemed to falter for a beat. I stood there, gasping slightly from the cold shock of it, looking down at the ruin of my clothes.
My mother didn’t apologize. She put a hand to her mouth in a mock gasp that didn’t reach her cold, calculating eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she sighed, sounding annoyed rather than sorry. “Look what you made me do. You were standing right in my blind spot.”
“You threw it,” I whispered, wiping futilely at the stain that looked like a gunshot wound on my chest.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Kevin laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “It’s an improvement. Adds some color to that boring outfit.”
I looked at my father, waiting. Waiting for him to be the officer he claimed to be. Waiting for him to show an ounce of the honor he preached about. He just looked at the stain and curled his lip in distaste.
“Great,” Victor said. “Now you look like a disaster. I can’t have you walking around my party looking like a casualty. Go out to the car.”
“The car?” I asked, my voice tightening.
“Yes, the car,” he barked, pointing toward the exit. “Go sit in the parking lot until the toasts are over, or just go home. I can’t introduce you to General Sterling looking like a soup kitchen charity case. You’re ruining the aesthetic.”
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