Chapter 2 - THE SHATTERED GLASS AND THE RIVAL’S SMILE
The bass line from the string quartet doing classical-pop covers thudded faintly against the marble floor. Mara didn't care about the music. She cared about the fact that her left heel was beginning to bleed. She could feel a warm, sticky dampness soaking into the heel of her borrowed nylon stocking.
"Looking for a rescue, Cinderella?"
The voice was sweet like poisoned honey. Mara didn't need to turn around to recognize Delia’s expensive French perfume—a heavy mix of tuberose and expensive white musk that always gave Mara a mild headache.
Delia drifted into Mara’s peripheral vision, leaning casually against the drooping fern. The junior senator was nowhere in sight, likely off fetching a refill of scotch or trying to impress an older lobbyist. Delia’s emerald silk gown rustled softly, perfectly tailored, hugging every curve with surgical precision.
"I'm fine, Delia," Mara said, keeping her eyes fixed on a waiter balancing a tray of miniature quiches.
"Of course you are," Delia laughed, a bright, musical sound that turned the heads of two nearby stockbrokers. "Though 'fine' is an interesting word for someone standing in the dark wearing my discarded hand-me-downs. Did you have to safety-pin the side seam, or did Dad actually spend ten whole dollars at the dry cleaner's for once?"
Mara remained silent. Years of practice had taught her that answering back only prolonged the performance. Delia thrived on the counter-punch.
"You know," Delia continued, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper meant only for Mara's humiliation, "everyone was taking bets at the entrance. Marcus—you remember Marcus, the real estate heir you humiliated at that museum gala two years ago by spilling sparkling water on his shoes?—he asked me if Father brought his maid or his charity case tonight. I told him you were just the backup decoration. A breathing coat rack. Honestly, Mara, nobody wants you here. If you tripped and fell into the ice sculpture right now, the most tragic part of the evening would be the water damage to the parquet floor."
Delia reached out, her manicured acrylic nail flicking a stray strand of Mara's hair away from her face with condescending pity. "Smile, darling. At least try to look like you belong in the same zip code as high society."
Before Mara could find a sufficiently dull retort to deflect the blow, a sudden, unnatural quiet swept through the ballroom.
It didn't happen all at once. It was a ripple effect, starting at the grand mahogany double doors at the far end of the hall and rolling inward like an oncoming tide. The string quartet stopped mid-measure, the first violinist's bow hovering awkwardly in the air. The chatter among the banking executives died down instantly, replaced by a tense, breathless vacuum. The waitstaff froze, trays balanced in mid-air.
May you like
Delia’s mocking smile faltered. Her hand dropped from the air. Her eyes widened, darting toward the entrance with a sudden, desperate hunger.
"Who..." Delia breathed, her voice losing its previous venom, replaced by the breathless flutter of a social climber spotting her ultimate prize. "Is that...?"
