“As Daniel’s new wife, I’m going to let his mother live in my old apartment.”
Claire said it at her own wedding, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and wearing a smile so polished it looked like she had practiced it in front of a mirror.
For one second, the hotel ballroom in Beverly Hills felt strange. Not completely silent, because the music was still playing and waiters were still moving between the tables, but filled with that uncomfortable hush that appears when everyone hears a hum!liation and no one knows whether to pretend it didn’t happen.
Evelyn Carter remained standing beside the main table. She wore a navy-blue dress, simple but elegant, and a pair of pearl earrings that had belonged to her mother. She was 63, with a straight back and the kind of calm that confused people who didn’t know her.
Claire, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy every stare.
“My apartment in Santa Monica is empty,” she continued, raising her voice a little. “It’s small, of course, but for a woman living alone, it’s perfect. Besides, that way Daniel and I can start our life without worries.”
A few female guests lowered their eyes. One of Daniel’s aunts tightened the napkin on her lap. The photographer stopped taking pictures.
Daniel, Evelyn’s son, smiled awkwardly, as if he wanted to turn the insult into a joke, but his face couldn’t quite manage it.
Evelyn looked at her son first.
