The aroma of seared scallops and expensive saffron drifted through the dining room of our suburban house on Oak Lane, a scent that should have signaled warmth and celebration. Instead, for me, the air felt thin and suffocating, as if the walls were slowly closing in. I moved with a ghost-like efficiency, placing the final crystal glass on the polished mahogany table with the practiced precision of a woman who had spent her childhood in rooms far more grand than this one. My movements were a dance of muscle memory, a performance designed to keep the mask from slipping.

Mark, my husband of five years, was already at the sideboard, his reflection in the gilded mirror showing a man obsessed with his own image. He was decanting a vintage Bordeaux that I had purchased through my “discretionary investment account”—the one Mark believed was just a small nest egg from a modest life insurance policy. In reality, that account was the rounding error of a multi-billion dollar estate, but to Mark, it was merely evidence of my “simple” nature. He smoothed his tailored suit, his eyes gleaming with the desperate, hollow hunger of a man who spent every waking hour trying to look like he belonged to a world he couldn’t yet afford.

“Victoria, for heaven’s sake, adjust the centerpiece,” Mark muttered, his voice sharp and dismissive, not deigning to look at me. “It’s crooked, and Linda is coming.

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