On my drive home from school, I passed Riverside Country Club, its perfectly trimmed hedges lined up like disciplined soldiers beneath the September sky. My membership card rested in my wallet, granting access to a world that would never truly accept me, no matter how often Travis insisted I attend the monthly spouses’ luncheons. The next one was tomorrow, and the thought alone tightened my stomach.
The luncheon arrived beneath unexpected heat, my department-store dress clinging as I stepped through the club’s heavy oak doors. The dining room had been arranged with round tables draped in cream linens, each centerpiece a precise cluster of white roses that likely cost more than my weekly grocery bill.
Patricia Rothschild stood near the bar, her Hermès bag gleaming as she gestured animatedly to Jennifer Cross. They were laughing over something on Jennifer’s phone.
I took a seat at their table—exactly as Travis had instructed. Patricia’s husband managed a hedge fund Travis was desperate to secure, and Jennifer’s family connections stretched across the Northeast Corridor like a network of invisible keys.
Their conversation stopped as I approached, smiles snapping into place.
“Savannah, how lovely,” Patricia cooed, air-kissing somewhere near my ear. “That dress is so… cheerful.”
“Target?” Jennifer chimed in sweetly, as though offering praise.
“Nordstrom Rack, actually,” I replied evenly, refusing to shrink.
“How sensible,” Patricia said, her tone implying she would rather wrap herself in burlap than shop at a discount retailer.
When the waiter came for drink orders, Patricia selected a bottle I immediately recognized—three hundred dollars—the same one Travis had ordered the previous week to impress clients. As the burgundy wine filled our glasses, Patricia’s hand “slipped,” sending a river of red directly into my lap.
Her gasp could have won an award. “Oh no. Your adorable little dress.”
