I don’t flinch when the red wine splashes across my dress. Years of standing in front of rooms full of people have taught me how to keep my face still, how to deny an audience the satisfaction of my reaction.
The dining room of the resort glows with candlelight and polished glass, the kind of place where voices drop not out of courtesy, but so everyone can hear themselves matter. My husband sits across from me, smiling too carefully, too brightly. Beside him, the woman laughs with the ease of someone who believes she’s untouchable.
He told me she was a client. A high-end guest. Someone who “coincidentally” booked the private anniversary table. I let the lie linger. Lies always expose themselves if you give them enough air.
Her wrist tips. A practiced gasp follows. The wine pours across my lap, dark and spreading, like a bruise forming before my eyes. She leans back, satisfied.
“Oh dear,” she says sweetly, eyes skimming over me, “maybe one of the servers can find you something more… appropriate to wear.”