On our anniversary, I saw my husband spike my drink—so I switched it with my mother-in-law’s….
My husband thought he was being subtle when he slipped the white powder into my champagne glass while I was in the restroom. He did not know I was watching him through the crack in the decorative partition. He also did not know that 30 seconds later, I would switch my glass with his mother’s—the same mother who had just spent the last two hours calling me gutter trash in front of half of Atlanta’s elite. What happened next was not just a disaster. It was a revelation that would burn their entire dynasty to the ground. Before I tell you how I destroyed three lives in one night, let me know where you are watching from in the comments. Hit like and subscribe if you have ever had to serve karma ice cold.
I am Simone, 32 years old, and tonight was supposed to be a celebration. Five years of marriage to Marcus, a man I thought was a king, but who turned out to be a court jester in a designer suit. We were at Bakanalia, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Atlanta—the kind of place where the tasting menu costs more than my father’s first car, and the silence is so heavy you can hear the ice melting in the crystal buckets. I sat there in my emerald silk gown, trying to keep my posture straight, while my mother-in-law, Beatatrice, dissected my existence with the precision of a surgeon. Beatatrice was 60, wearing a Chanel suit that probably cost $20,000 and a string of pearls that had belonged to her grandmother. She looked at me with eyes that were cold and dead like a shark.
“You know, Simone,” she said, loud enough for the table of bank executives next to us to hear, “green really is not your color. It highlights the yellow undertones in your skin. It makes you look like you are suffering from jaundice. Or perhaps it is just the lighting in here. It is so difficult to dress appropriately when one does not have the breeding for it.”
I took a sip of water and smiled. I was a forensic accountant. I spent my days hunting down hidden assets and exposing corporate fraud. I knew how to keep a poker face. I knew Beatatrice hated me because I came from Bankhead, not Buckhead. She hated that I worked for my money instead of inheriting it. She hated that I did not belong to the Jack and Jill club or the right sorority.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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