Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
His comment makes me smile, and I want to believe him, but ten minutes in, and he already isn’t here. I can already feel him slipping through the cracks, disappearing as he eyes the drink cart, no doubt to escape his parents’ judgmental gazes and the other socialites’ whispers. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to add more pressure to what he’s already feeling. I just need to get through this photo op we’ve been roped into, and then everything will be back to normal. Back to us.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Peachy.” Lee smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I give his hand a tight squeeze to let him know that I’m here and that I see him, feel him. That I’m trying to be suitable, even when this place and these people make me feel like I’m falling apart at the seams. Even if Katherine’s smile holds that edge of triumph as she watches me catalog every imperfection in her perfect world.
The photographer takes a step closer, and I start counting my heartbeats, lacking ceiling tiles to ground me in this perfect nightmare of asymmetry.
“Let’s position the newest addition to our family first.” Katherine’s voice drips honey-coated venom as she gestures for me to move forward. “Salem, darling, do try to look natural.”
The word is a blade designed to slice.
Natural. As if anything about this is natural. I force myself to step away from Lee, measuring each movement. The photographer circles me like a vulture, adjusting my shoulders, tilting my chin, arranging me like a doll.
Lee’s other family members, a couple I met at the gala, stand waiting, watching me, too. Emma, his sister, her fiancé, who I can’t remember his name, Lee’s grandfather, and father all stare, watching and waiting.
“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, though nothing is perfect. My silk gloves feel too tight, the buttons not quite aligned. Thanks to his positioning, the hem of my chosen dress now sits asymmetrically. “Now, just relax those shoulders.”
Relax. Count. Breathe. I try to catch Lee’s eye, seeking our usual shared rhythm, but he’s engaged in what looks like an intense whispered conversation with his mother. His jaw clenches in that way that means he’s fighting the urge to reach for a drink.
“Arms soft,” the photographer instructs, touching my elbow without warning. I flinch, and Katherine’s slight smile tells me she noticed. “Head tilted … yes, like that. Now smile like you belong here.”
Like I belong here. In this room where nothing aligns. In this family where everything is performance. In this world where Lee is already pulling away, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a pattern that has nothing to do with my counting and everything to do with measuring minutes until his next drink.
“Lee,” Katherine interrupts whatever he was saying. “Do join Salem. Let’s show everyone what a suitable match looks like.”
The word suitable hits like a slap. Lee stiffens, then moves toward me with careful steps that tell me he’s already had at least one drink. When did that happen? How did I miss it? Fuck, I zoned out while the photographer kept adjusting.
He takes his place beside me, and for a moment, I think we’ll find our rhythm. But his hand on my waist is too tight, his smile too forced, his energy too chaotic to match my measured breaths.
“Lovely,” the photographer coos. “Now, let’s get the whole family in. Mrs. Sterling, if you’ll stand just here.”
Katherine glides into position, everything about her a study in controlled elegance. Even her weird jacket somehow looks intentional now, like she’s daring anyone to question her choices.
I start counting the camera clicks, trying to ground myself as more people join the frame. More hands adjusting positions. More voices giving directions. More chaos in what should be an ordered tableau.
And through it all, Lee’s fingers drum against my waist, measuring time until escape.
“Just a slight adjustment.” The photographer’s hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my waist, my arms. Each touch sends sparks of panic through my silk barriers. “Mrs. Sterling, perhaps behind the happy couple? And Lee, please stop fidgeting.”
Lee’s response is to shift again, his usual protective stance wavering. I feel him pulling away, creating space that shouldn’t exist between us. The careful bubble we’ve built over months starts to fracture.
“Salem, dear,” Katherine materializes on my other side. “Your gloves are creasing oddly. Perhaps if you relaxed your hands? We wouldn’t want the photos to show any … tension.”
The suggestion carries weight beyond fabric concerns. I force my fingers to uncurl, counting the movements. One finger at a time. Two seconds between each. Three attempts to look natural.
“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims again, though Lee’s now standing too far left, throwing off our careful symmetry. “Now, young Mr. Sterling, if you could just—”
“I need a minute.” Lee’s voice carries that edge that usually precedes him reaching for a drink. “Just … give me a fucking minute.”