“I don’t have time for this tonight,” Catherine said under her breath, her smile never wavering as a passing couple greeted her. She nodded graciously to them, exchanging pleasantries as if nothing were wrong, then turned back to Evelyn the moment they moved on. “Everything depends on how this evening goes.”

Evelyn followed her gaze across the ballroom. She saw men clustered in tight circles, their laughter just a shade too loud, their handshakes lingering a second too long. Women stood beside them like carefully placed ornaments, their smiles bright, their eyes calculating. Every movement, every word, felt rehearsed—performed for an invisible audience that demanded perfection.

It clicked into place with quiet clarity. This wasn’t a celebration—it was a negotiation wrapped in silk and champagne. The roses weren’t beauty; they were proof. The chandeliers weren’t decoration; they were declaration. Even her mother’s voice, her urgency, her fear disguised as control—it was all part of the same fragile construction.

“And where do I fit into that?” Evelyn asked, not bitterly, but honestly. For a moment, Catherine didn’t answer. Her silence said enough. Evelyn wasn’t here as a daughter. She was a piece—one more detail to complete the illusion, to signal stability, respectability, success. A role, not a person.
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