The dining room of Eleanor Vance’s sprawling Victorian estate was a monument to old money—or at least, the appearance of it. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a mahogany table set for twelve. The air smelled of roasted duck, expensive perfume, and the distinct, metallic tang of unspoken judgment.
Sarah sat at the far end of the table, squeezed between her husband, Mark, and a drafty window. Her eight-year-old daughter, Lily, sat next to her, swinging her legs nervously. Lily was wearing a red velvet dress Sarah had bought at Target. It was cute, festive, and clean.
Across the table sat Mark’s older brother, Brad, his wife, Tiffany, and their two children, the “Golden Grandkids,” as Sarah privately called them. They were dressed in Burberry and Ralph Lauren. They were loud, entitled, and currently throwing dinner rolls at each other while Eleanor beamed at them with adoration.
“Stop it, Tyler,” Eleanor cooed, gently catching a roll before it hit the gravy boat. “You have such a pitching arm! Just like your father.”