“Don’t embarrass me,” Victoria hissed, nails digging into my forearm as the valet stand’s heat lamps baked the sidewalk. “Mark’s dad is a federal judge. These people are… real.”
My keys were already in my hand—plain Camry fob, nothing flashy—except for the tiny American-flag keychain clipped to it, the kind you buy at a Fourth of July street fair when you’re seventeen and sentimental.
The faded red-and-white stripes tapped my knuckles as if reminding me to breathe. “I won’t,” I said. Victoria studied my navy dress like she was checking for hidden stains.
“And don’t say ‘Your Honor’ or anything weird. Just—smile. Nod.
Let me do the talking.”
I nodded, because I’d been nodding at Victoria my whole life. Inside The Ivy, candlelight softened the edges of everything: the dark wood, the white linens, the thick crystal glasses. Sinatra floated over the speakers—some low, velvety croon about love and timing.
A sweating glass of iced tea sat on the bar like a tiny, American promise: sweet, cold, and quietly lethal if you weren’t careful. When Mark’s family arrived, Victoria rose from her chair like a debutante in a museum exhibit. “This is my sister Elena,” she announced, voice bright enough to cut through the music.
“The disappointment.”
I felt the word land on my skin like a brand. Judge Thomas Reynolds—tall, silver-haired, the kind of man who made people lower their voices without meaning to—extended his hand. I took it.
“Your Honor,” I said softly, because my mouth knows the truth even when my family doesn’t. “Good to see you again.”
Victoria’s wine glass slipped. Crystal struck porcelain.
Red wine arced like a small, shocked confession. And then the glass shattered into glittering shards that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the table. Victoria stared at the wreckage like it was her life.
And the look on her face—pure, panicked disbelief—was fifteen years in the making. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Elena Martinez.
I’m forty-two years old. Victoria is forty-five. We grew up in Northern Virginia, the land of carefully edged lawns and unspoken hierarchies, where people ask what you do and really mean who you are.
Our parents owned a successful accounting firm. We weren’t rich-rich, but we were comfortable in that particular DMV way—country club membership, the right school districts, charity galas where everyone pretended the silent auction items mattered more than who was watching. Victoria was the golden child.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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