It was my 28th birthday. I, Sarah Miller, stood before the mirror in my penthouse overlooking Central Park. I was wearing a burgundy silk Alexander McQueen dress that I had saved three months of my salary to buy.
Tonight was a special night. My husband, Richard, had texted me early in the morning: “I have a reservation at The Obsidian for 7 p.m. Be gorgeous.
I have a big surprise for you.”
The Obsidian. The hardest three-star Michelin restaurant in New York. Where a bottle of wine costs as much as a used car.
I had spent the afternoon at the spa, hair and makeup done. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to find confidence. My three years as a daughter of the Harringtons had been three years of being scorned.
Richard’s family was “Old Money” on the East Coast, and I was the daughter of a high school teacher from Ohio. They called me “lucky Cinderella,” “gold digger,” even though I still worked as a human resources manager and never asked them for a penny for personal expenses. But Richard always said he loved me.
And tonight, at the most exclusive restaurant in town, I hoped he would prove to his family how important I was to him. I arrived at the restaurant at 6:55. The manager looked at me with a questioning eye, then led me into a private VIP room.
The room was gorgeous with crystal chandeliers and a long, wide table. I sat there. Alone.
7:15. 7:30. 7:45.
My phone was silent. Anxiety began to creep in. Had he had an accident?
Or had work come up? At exactly 8 p.m., the heavy oak door swung open. I stood up, a bright smile on my face.
“Richard, you’re here…”
My words caught. Richard walked in. He was dressed in a shiny black tuxedo, handsome and arrogant.
But he wasn’t alone. Beside him was my mother-in-law, Beatrice Harrington. She was wearing a sparkling diamond-studded evening gown and a white mink coat, her head held high like a queen.
Following behind were my father-in-law, William, and about ten of their upper-class relatives and friends. No one looked at me. Or rather, they looked through me as if I were an invisible waitress.
“Son,” Beatrice said loudly, her voice echoing throughout the room. “Your father is ready! Where’s the champagne?
We’re going to have a big party tonight!”
Richard laughed, moving to pull out a chair for his mother in the chair. I stood frozen at the corner of the table. “Richard… what’s going on?
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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