“Family,” Victoria replied coolly, “does not include staff, Elena.”
A ripple of laughter followed. Someone raised a phone and began recording. A teenage boy pointed at Mateo’s faded T-shirt. A girl mimicked his shy posture. The humiliation was entertainment.
Mateo tried to hold back his tears. His small shoulders stiffened as if bracing against a storm. “I just wanted to touch the water,” he whispered to his mother.
The words were so soft, yet they carried more weight than all the laughter combined.
From the far corner of the garden, Richard watched.
Dressed in a tailored navy suit, hands buried in his pockets, he seemed almost invisible despite owning every inch of the property. Few of the guests truly knew him; most were there because of Victoria’s social ambitions. Richard only attended this annual gathering out of habit—out of loyalty to the memory of his late wife, Caroline, who had adored hosting summer parties in this very garden before she died twenty years ago in Harbor Point.
He kept her photograph in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wore a plain silver wedding band because she once told him, “Real worth doesn’t sparkle. It stays.”