Chapter 2 - The Dinner of Wolves
By five-thirty, the kitchen smelled of lemon bleach and roasted rosemary chicken—a meal I had managed to cook through bouts of intense dizziness. My pale blue dress was ruined, stained with dirty floor water at the hem and sweat at the collar.
Vivian entered the kitchen, inspecting the counters with a white microfiber cloth. She swiped it under the lip of the island, trying desperately to find a speck of dust. When the cloth came back clean, her lips thinned in annoyance.
"Go upstairs and change," she commanded. "You look like a beggar. The investors will arrive in twenty minutes. You will sit at the table, pour the wine, and speak only when spoken to. Do not mention the baby. It makes the investors think Daniel is distracted by domestic issues."
"Lily needs to nurse, Vivian," I said, leaning heavily against the counter.
"She can wait. A schedule breeds discipline." Vivian turned on her heel and left.
I dragged myself up the back staircase, avoiding the grand foyer where Daniel was already welcoming the first guests. In my small, sparse bedroom—Daniel had moved his things to the master suite months ago, claiming my pregnancy snoring disturbed his rest—I changed into a simple black dress. It was the only thing that fit my swollen, postpartum body.
When I returned downstairs, the dining room was filled with the low hum of wealthy men discussing market shares. Daniel sat at the head of the table, radiating the false confidence he wore like armor.
"Ah, Clara," Daniel said as I entered. His voice took on a warm, performative tone for his guests. "Come, pour the Cabernet for Mr. Vance."
Mr. Vance was an older billionaire, known for his ruthless acquisition of struggling tech firms. He looked at me, his eyes lingering on my pale face and trembling hands as I lifted the heavy crystal decanter.
"Your wife looks tired, Daniel," Mr. Vance remarked, his voice sharp. "Didn't she just give birth?"
"A minor complication," Vivian spoke up from the other end of the table, smiling smoothly. "But Clara is resilient. She insists on maintaining her household duties. We believe in traditional values here."
I poured the wine, my hands shaking so violently that a single drop fell onto the pristine white tablecloth. It bloomed like a drop of blood.
Daniel’s jaw tightened. "Clara, watch what you're doing," he hissed under his breath.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing cry echoed from the upper floor. It was Lily. Her cries were desperate, hungry, and loud enough to cut through the dining room's acoustics.
Mr. Vance frowned. "I thought you said the child was handled, Daniel. I don't invest in men who can't control their own homes."
Daniel’s face flushed red with embarrassment and anger. He glared at me. "Go up there and shut her up, Clara. Now."
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I didn't apologize to the guests. I turned and ran—as much as my injured body would allow—up the stairs. When I picked Lily up, her tiny body was hot, and she was crying so hard she was gasping for air. I sat on the edge of the bed and fed her, tears streaming down my face, listening to the muffled sounds of my husband apologizing for my "incompetence" downstairs.
I realized then that to Daniel and Vivian, Lily wasn't a grandchild or a daughter. She was a liability to their social standing. And I was the barrier keeping that liability at bay.
