The wolves didn't wait.
I stood there clutching my champagne glass like a lifeline, trying to look comfortable and probably failing miserably.
The music swelled around me, conversations created a constant buzz, and I felt like I was standing in the middle of a stage with a spotlight on me and no idea what my lines were supposed to be.
"Well, well."
The voice came from behind me, high and cultured and dripping with false sweetness. I turned to find three women approaching, all dressed in designer gowns that shows luxury, all wearing identical expressions of predatory interest.
"You must be the new Mrs. Hawthorne," the leader said, a striking blonde in a blood-red dress. She looked me up and down with the kind of assessment that felt like being stripped naked. "How... quaint."
My stomach dropped, but I forced my smile to stay in place. "Yes, I'm Emily. It's nice to meet you."
"I'm sure it is." The blonde's smile sharpened. "I'm Vanessa Blackwell. This is Christine and Amanda." She gestured vaguely at her companions. "We knew Sharon, of course. Victor's late wife? Such a tragedy."
There it was. Less than five minutes in, and Sharon's ghost had already been summoned.
"I've heard she was a remarkable woman," I said carefully.
"Oh, she was more than remarkable." Christine, a brunette with a severe bob, leaned in. "She was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The kind of woman who made everyone around her look better just by existing."
"Such grace," Amanda added, her voice wistful. "Such poise. And the way she and Victor were together..." She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "You could feel the love radiating from them. It was like something out of a movie."
Each word was a carefully placed knife, slipped between my ribs.
"Victor certainly has... eclectic taste," Vanessa continued, her eyes traveling over my dress again. "Going from someone like Sharon to someone like... well, to you. It's quite a departure."
"I suppose love doesn't follow predictable patterns," I managed, my voice tight.
"Love." Vanessa laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Is that what we're calling it? How modern."
"Tell us," Christine moved closer, her perfume overly sweet and overwhelming. "How exactly did you meet? The story seems rather... vague."
My mind raced through the script Charles had drilled into me. Personal assistant. Three months. Private dinner. But with these three women staring at me like wolves circling wounded prey, the lies felt flimsy and transparent.
"I was working for Victor," I said, keeping my voice steady. "We spent a lot of time together. Things... developed naturally."
"Naturally." Amanda's eyebrows rose. "How convenient. A man as wealthy and vulnerable as Victor, and you just happened to be there at the right time."
"It wasn't like that…"
"Of course not," Vanessa interrupted, her tone making it clear she believed the exact opposite. "I'm sure your intentions were pure. Just like I'm sure it was pure coincidence that you ended up married so quickly. No prenup, I assume?"
Heat flooded my face. "I don't think that's appropriate…"
"Appropriate?" Christine laughed. "Darling, we're just trying to understand. You have to admit, the optics are... questionable. Poor Victor, isolated in that big house, still grieving Sharon, and suddenly he's married to his employee? It raises questions."
"Victor and I are very happy," I said, the words feeling like ash in my mouth.
"I'm sure you are." Vanessa's smile was all teeth. "You've certainly landed well for yourself. From whatever it was you were doing before to Mrs. Victor Hawthorne. Quite the upgrade."
They kept coming, these women with their cruel smiles and pointed words, each comment designed to remind me that I was an outsider, an intruder, someone who would never truly belong in their world no matter what dress I wore or what ring sat on my finger.
More people joined their circle. More comparisons to Sharon. More questions about how Victor and I met, about my background, about whether I'd ever attended events like this before. Each question stripped away another layer of the confidence I'd been trying to build, leaving me feeling exposed and raw.
"Excuse me," I finally managed, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "I need to... excuse me."
I fled toward the bathroom, my heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor, my vision starting to blur with tears I refused to let fall. Not here. Not where they could see.
The bathroom was blessedly empty when I burst through the door, all marble and gold fixtures and mirrors that reflected my increasingly desperate expression from every angle. I braced my hands on the sink, head bowed, trying to breathe through the panic.
"How quaint. Eclectic taste. Quite an upgrade."
The words circled in my head like vultures.
"I can't do this," I whispered to my reflection. "I can't. I…just can't."
The tears came then, hot and fast, streaming down my carefully made-up face and leaving tracks through the expensive makeup. My shoulders shook with the effort of keeping the sobs silent.
This was a mistake. All of it. I didn't belong here. These people could smell it on me, the poverty, the desperation, the truth that I was nothing but a paid performer in Victor's elaborate charade.
A toilet flushed.
I froze, horror washing over me as I realized I wasn't alone. One of the stall doors opened, and an older woman emerged, probably in her sixties, with blonde hair swept into an elegant twist and kind eyes that took in my tear-stained face with immediate concern.
"Oh, sweetheart." She pulled a handkerchief from her clutch, and handed it to me. "Here."
"I'm fine," I managed, even as I accepted the handkerchief and pressed it to my eyes. "I'm sorry, I just…"
"You just ran into the vultures." Her voice was gentle but direct. "Let me guess. Vanessa Blackwell and her coven?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"They've been circling since you arrived." She moved to stand beside me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "I'm Eleanor Hartford, by the way. And before you ask, yes, I know exactly who you are, Emily Hawthorne. The whole room knows. You're the most interesting thing to happen to this crowd in years."
"They know nothing about me," I said, my voice breaking on the last word. I wiped furiously at my tears, smearing the mascara. "Absolutely nothing about me. They've decided who I am based on... on what? My dress? Where I came from? The fact that I'm not Sharon?"
"No," Eleanor agreed softly. "They don't know you at all. But they know you're not from their world. And that terrifies them."
"Terrifies them?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Why would I terrify them?"
"Because you're proof that their carefully constructed hierarchy can be breached." Eleanor handed me another tissue as my first one became sodden.
"You walked into Victor Hawthorne's life from outside their circle, and somehow you managed to do what dozens of society women have been trying to do for years. You got him to notice you. To marry you. That makes you either incredibly clever or incredibly lucky, and either way, it makes you dangerous."
"I'm not dangerous," I whispered. "I'm just trying to survive."
"Aren't we all, dear?" Eleanor's smile was sad and knowing. "The difference is, most of these people have never had to fight for anything. Money, status, connections, it was all handed to them at birth. So when someone like you comes along, someone who's actually had to struggle and scrape and sacrifice, it reminds them how fragile their position really is."
I stared at her through the mirror, this stranger who somehow understood. "It doesn't make it hurt less."
"No," she agreed. "It doesn't. But it might help you remember that their opinion of you matters far less than your opinion of yourself." She squeezed my shoulder gently. "You're here because you belong here. Because Victor chose you. Because you fought for this spot. Don't let them take that from you."
My reflection stared back at me, makeup ruined, eyes red, the expensive dress suddenly feeling like a costume I had no right to wear. But underneath the tears and the smeared mascara, I saw something else. Something that looked like strength, battered and bruised, but still standing.
Maybe, just maybe, I needed to do this for myself too.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and began repairing my makeup with shaking hands. Eleanor stood beside me, offering silent support, until I looked presentable again.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For the handkerchief. For the kindness."
"Keep it." Eleanor winked. "Something tells me you might need it again before the night is over. But Emily? When you walk back out there, remember this… Vanessa Blackwell and her nasty little comment, that's nothing. You've survived worse. You'll survive this too."
She was right.
I had survived worse.
And I would survive this.