She looked at the box with a mixture of confusion and theatrical pity, turning to her friends to make a cold joke about how I probably found the gift at a clearance rack. She began to loudly recount stories of how I had supposedly struggled and failed in Philadelphia, painting me as a tragic disappointment to the entire room.
Harrison stood up and pushed the box back toward me with a sneer that matched his son’s. “We do not want your cheap handouts or your presence here, Elara, so take your pride and get out of this building before I have security escort you to the curb.”
The room went completely silent as fifty pairs of eyes landed on me, some filled with genuine pity and others with cruel, polished amusement. I did not cry this time because I had already shed those tears years ago on a cold bus ride to Vermont.
I let out a soft, steady laugh that seemed to unnerve the entire room of socialites. “You really have no idea what you just threw back at me, Harrison,” I said as I reached out to open the velvet box myself.