Chapter 2 - The Mask of Perfection
For the next three days, I refused to answer Bianca’s calls.
She sent texts—alternating between fake, sugary concern and passive-aggressive threats:
“Helen, I hope your knee is better! I was so worried when you tripped. We really need to finalize your dress size by tomorrow.”
“Helen, ignoring my messages is very childish. Everett will be disappointed to hear you aren't cooperating with the wedding planners.”
I didn't reply to a single one. Instead, I met with my long-time family attorney and close friend, Sarah Jenkins. We sat in my sunlit living room, sipping chamomile tea while Sarah reviewed the high-definition security footage on my laptop.
When the video reached the moment Bianca grabbed my braid and shoved me, causing the heavy ceramic pot to shatter, Sarah let out a sharp intake of breath.
"That absolute monster," Sarah breathed, her fingers tightening around her tea cup. "That is physical assault and property damage, Helen. We could file for an emergency restraining order right now."
"No," I said quietly, looking at the screen. "If I file a police report while Everett is still in Singapore, Bianca will control the narrative. She will call him, cry, and claim I attacked her or staged the incident because I dislike her. She’s spent two years building a reputation as a sweet, supportive partner in front of my son."
"Then what do you want to do?" Sarah asked.
"Everett flies back in four days," I said, setting my cup down with a firm click. "He is hosting a welcome-home dinner party at his downtown penthouse for Bianca’s parents, his executive team, and the wedding party. Bianca organized it as a celebration before the ceremony."
Sarah’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "You're going to hand him the evidence in front of everyone."
"I am going to let Bianca play her role until the very last moment," I replied. "And then I am going to let the truth speak for itself."
While I prepared, Bianca was busy tightening her grip on Everett’s life.
From what I gathered through mutual acquaintances in Charleston, Bianca had already taken over the seating arrangements for the wedding, quietly removing my extended family members—my sister Martha and Richard’s brothers—from the head tables and placing them near the back service doors. She had told the caterers that "Helen’s rustic tastes" were to be completely ignored in favor of an ultra-modern French menu.
On Thursday afternoon, two days before Everett’s return, Bianca dropped off a package at my front porch without knocking.
I opened the door to find a plain gray box. Inside was a dark navy dress made of cheap, stiff synthetic fabric. It was three sizes too large, completely shapeless, and looked like something pulled from a clearance rack at a discount department store.
Attached was a handwritten note in Bianca’s neat, curling script:
Helen,
Since you refused the makeover, this is the dress you will wear to the ceremony and reception. It is modest, neutral, and will not clash with my mother’s custom silk gown.
Do not attempt to alter it.
— Bianca
I touched the rough, scratchy fabric of the dress. It was a deliberate, calculated insult—an attempt to make me look foolish, dowdy, and invisible on the most important day of my son's life.
I laid the navy dress neatly back inside the box, walked to my bedroom closet, and pulled out the dress I had spent six weeks secretly having tailored.
May you like
It was a floor-length gown of rich, shimmering silver-blue silk, exquisitely draped, with delicate lace along the neckline that matched the silver in my long hair. It was royal, elegant, and timeless.
I smiled into the mirror. "Let her try."
