The waiter placed a plate of sea scallops in front of Bethel. The aroma of butter and garlic wafted up, but her stomach churned violently. She picked up her fork, her movements mechanical, like a robot programmed to mimic human dining.
Across the table, Baron was cutting into a steak. His knife scraped against the porcelain plate with a screeching sound that made Bethel wince. He was doing it on purpose. Every slice was deliberate, aggressive.
"So, Bethel," Clarissa Melendez said. Her voice was light, sugary, but her eyes were sharp. She had noticed the tension. She had noticed the way Baron was ignoring everything else in the room to stare at his steak. "Chynna tells me you're a lawyer."
Bethel looked up, startled. "Yes."
"Still doing that... what do you call it? Aid work?" Clarissa asked, tilting her head.
"Legal aid," Bethel corrected softly. "I work for a non-profit center downtown. We help people who can't afford representation."
Clarissa let out a small, tinkling laugh. She covered her mouth with a hand that sported a diamond ring the size of a grape. "Oh, that's so noble. And so... quaint. I suppose it doesn't pay very well, though, does it?"
Bethel tightened her grip on her fork. "It pays enough."
Baron took a sip of his red wine. He didn't look at Bethel, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of amusement.
"Some people just love to play the saint," Clarissa said, turning her body toward Baron, effectively cutting Bethel out of the visual circle. "But deep down, everyone loves a checkbook."
The table went quiet. The insult was thinly veiled, a jagged rock wrapped in silk.
Bethel bit her lower lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She looked at Baron. He was the only one who could stop this. He was the host's guest of honor. One word from him would shut Clarissa up.
Baron finally looked up. His gray eyes swept over Bethel's pale face, taking in her distress.
He didn't speak. He didn't defend her. He just picked up his wine glass again and took a slow, deliberate swallow, watching her over the rim.
He was enjoying it. He wanted to see her squirm. He wanted to see her humiliated.
"Anyway," Chynna interjected, sensing the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure. "The wedding colors are going to be blush and gold. Bethel is going to be my maid of honor."
"Hopefully she can afford the dress," Clarissa muttered, loud enough for half the table to hear. "Though I suppose that one is a classic. Isn't that from Balenciaga's collection five years ago? It's brave to wear vintage to a place like this." The insult was sharper now, a perfectly aimed dart recognizing the dress's former glory to highlight its current owner's fall from grace.
Clarissa leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly in the quiet room. "A real gold digger, from what people say."
Bethel dropped her fork. It clattered against the china, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
She looked at Clarissa. For a second, a spark of defiance flared in her chest. She wanted to scream that she was the opposite of a gold digger, that she was drowning in debt because she refused to take anyone's money.
She looked at Baron again. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting. He was waiting for her to fight back. He was waiting for the girl who used to debate him for hours to show up.
But she couldn't. If she defended herself, she risked unraveling the lie she had told him five years ago. She had to be the villain. She had to be the gold digger.
Bethel swallowed the bile in her throat. She lowered her eyes and said nothing.
Baron's expression shifted. The anticipation in his eyes died, replaced by a profound, withering disappointment. He looked at her with pure disgust.
He turned his shoulder to her, engaging the man on his right in a conversation about propulsion systems. The dismissal was absolute. It hurt more than Clarissa's words ever could.
The main course arrived, but Bethel couldn't breathe. The air in the room was too thick, too hot.
"Excuse me," she murmured, pushing her chair back.
She stood up on shaky legs and walked toward the door. She could feel Baron's gaze burning into her back, a physical weight dragging her down.
She pushed through the doors and practically ran to the restrooms. She burst into the ladies' room, gripping the edge of the marble sink. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her skin was gray, her eyes rimmed with red. She dry-heaved over the basin, nothing coming up but acid and misery.
The door opened behind her.
Bethel straightened up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Clarissa walked in. She didn't look at Bethel. She walked to the mirror and began reapplying her lipstick.
"Stay away from him," Clarissa said to the mirror.
Bethel watched her reflection. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Clarissa snapped her clutch shut. She turned, her eyes cold. "I saw the way he looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at him. He's mine, Bethel. And a washed-up little charity lawyer like you doesn't stand a chance against me."
Clarissa smiled, checking her teeth in the mirror one last time. "Don't make this ugly. You can't afford ugly."
She turned and walked out, leaving the scent of expensive roses and threat in the air.
