To push me into yelling. Crying. Looking “unstable.” Giving them something they could use later when lawyers and lies started flying.
I looked up at James.
“Are you going to say anything,” I asked calmly, “or are you really going to let your mother plan your divorce at the dinner table?”
James opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Emma inhaled like she was about to speak, like she thought she was stepping into a role someone promised her.
And I realized…
the night was just getting started.
You sit at the table in Charleston, South Carolina, not Valencia, and the dining room looks like a postcard someone weaponized.
Red tablecloth. Warm string lights. A pine centerpiece that smells like nostalgia. Carols humming low from a speaker in the corner, cheerful enough to feel insulting.
Your mother-in-law, Diane Whitaker, smiles like she’s cutting ribbon at a grand opening.
“This is Emma,” she announces again, because she wants the moment to stick. “She’ll be perfect for James after the divorce.”
You don’t flinch.
You butter your bread like you’re spreading calm across a battlefield, and you smile at Emma, who is polished to the point of looking manufactured.
“How lovely,” you say. “Did anyone mention the house is in my name… and the prenup protects every asset that actually matters?”
James chokes on air.
Diane blinks like someone just interrupted her script.
And Emma’s perfect posture wobbles for half a second before she pulls it back into place.
Silence sits heavy, and you can feel the entire Whitaker family calculating.
Not morality.
Damage control.
James’s father stares down at his plate like he’s suddenly very interested in green beans. James’s sister scrolls her phone under the table, probably composing the group chat version of your downfall in real time.
Diane’s voice goes sugar-thin. “Helena,” she says, as if your name is something she can press between her fingers until it breaks. “Don’t make a scene.”
You keep your smile, soft and dangerous. “I’m not,” you reply. “You’re the one hosting auditions.”
Emma clears her throat. “I didn’t mean to—” she starts.
You tilt your head. “Of course you did,” you say gently. “You just didn’t mean for me to know I was being replaced before dessert.”
Emma’s cheeks flush, and you almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
Because she didn’t walk in here by accident.
