The twenty-two-pound turkey sat in the center of the Viking dual-fuel range, its skin crisping to a perfect mahogany. It was a heritage breed, organic and free-range, costing more than most families spent on a month of groceries. I knew the price because I had paid for it. I had also paid for the range, the Le Creuset roasting pan, and the sprawling five-thousand-square-foot Connecticut colonial that currently smelled of sage, clarified butter, and a toxic, simmering resentment.
“Elena!”
The voice pierced the kitchen air, sharp as a scalpel. It belonged to Beatrice Sterling, my mother-in-law—a woman who draped herself in Chanel suits she couldn’t afford and evaluated human worth by the price of shoes she hadn’t bought.
“Coming, Beatrice,” I called out, my voice flat. I wiped my hands on my apron, feeling the sting of the hot water and salt on my chapped skin. I had been prepping this “family” feast for six hours alone.
I entered the formal living room, a museum of beige luxury and high-end minimalism. Richard, my husband of five years, stood by the marble fireplace swirling a crystal tumbler of Macallan 25—the $2,000 bottle I had bought for his last birthday. He looked every bit the high-powered investment banker in his tailored charcoal suit and Rolex Submariner.
“The champagne is tepid,” Beatrice announced, gesturing toward a flute of 2008 Dom Pérignon as if it were tap water. “Richard works himself to the bone to provide this lifestyle, to afford this high-end refrigeration, and you can’t even manage basic temperature control? It’s embarrassing, Elena.”
I looked at Richard. He didn’t blink. He never did. “Fix it, Elena,” he murmured, swirling the scotch I provided. “My partners will be here soon. I don’t want the house looking like a frat party.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice a steady mask. “I’ll get more ice.”
“You do that,” Beatrice sneered. “God knows it’s the least you can do. You don’t work, you don’t contribute. You just… exist. Like a piece of furniture that eats too much.”
I retreated to the kitchen. They saw a “freeloader.” A trophy wife who had struck gold. The truth, however, was a ledger they had never been permitted to see. I wasn’t unemployed; I was a senior partner at a private equity firm specializing in distressed asset management. My quarterly bonus, which had hit my offshore account that morning, was $250,000. My annual take-home exceeded three million dollars.
Richard? Richard was a mid-level account manager making $120,000 a year while maintaining a $200,000-a-year lifestyle. For five years, I had subsidized his ego. I had created a shell company, “Sterling Consulting,” and hired him as a “consultant” to funnel my own money into his accounts so he wouldn’t feel “emasculated.” I paid the mortgage, the car notes, and his mother’s credit card bills. I did it because I was an orphan who craved a family so badly I was willing to buy one.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A notification flickered: Wire Transfer Complete. $250,000.00 credited to Account X-990. It was liquid power.
“Elena! The hors d’oeuvres!” Beatrice’s voice barked again.
The dinner party was a masquerade of arrogance. Twelve guests—Richard’s “colleagues”—sat around a table I had polished until it shone like a mirror.
“This place is magnificent, Richard,” Dave, a senior partner, noted while carving the turkey. “The market is bleeding, but you’re clearly at the top of your game.”
Richard beamed, puffing out his chest. “It’s about discipline, Dave. Smart investments. I wanted to ensure my family had the absolute best.”
“To my son,” Beatrice toasted, her eyes darting to me with venom. “The provider. The rock. Unlike those who simply enjoy the ride.”
The table chuckled. I remained silent until I noticed the seating arrangement. There were thirteen people, but only twelve settings. In my place sat Beatrice’s orange Hermès Birkin bag.
“Beatrice, that’s my seat,” I said quietly.
“Oh? I assumed you’d be picking at scraps in the kitchen,” she replied without looking up. “Besides, this is fine leather. It shouldn’t be on the floor.”
