The Mayfield's dining room is a spectacle of excess, dripping in chandeliers and gilded frames, every inch designed to scream wealth and influence. The long mahogany table gleams under the soft light, set with china so fine I'm afraid to touch it.
I sit stiffly, conscious of every movement, every glance sent my way by Carter, who's seated across from me. He's as polished as ever, leaning slightly forward as he asks me about my interests. Or at least, that's what I think he's doing. His words blur into the background as my focus shifts to the weight of expectations pressing down on me.
I give a courteous smile, the kind that is second nature by now.
"I've always been drawn to literature," I say, but the truth is more complex than that. I enjoy reading stories—the ones I could escape into as a child when the Laurent estate felt more like a jail than a home—but confessing it here feels too raw, too private.
"Literature?" Carter's brow furrows, as if he's attempting to reconcile my response with the well constructed image he already has of me. "That's ... unexpected."
"I'm full of surprises," I say easily, my tone rougher than intended.
My father, seated at the head of the table, clears his throat as a subtle but clear warning. I meet his gaze briefly, my heart sinking at the disapproval written over his features.
"Literature has its merits." Mr. Mayfield interrupts, his booming voice breaking through the tension. "But let us not overlook the value of practical pursuits. "Like law."
He places his hand on Carter's shoulder, grinning with pride, and I suppress the impulse to roll my eyes.
The conversation shifts to safer topics, such as politics, the stock market, and various golf tournaments that I could care less about. I nod at the appropriate times, smile when necessary, and sip my wine to break the boredom.
And then it happens.
...
A loud crash from the kitchen, followed by the sound of raising voices. The room falls silent, every head turning toward the source of the commotion.
"I'll handle it." Mrs. Mayfield says, her tone tight as she rises gracefully from her seat and sweeps towards the door.
But before she can reach it, the doors slam open, and a young guy enters, his face flushed and his clothes slightly messy. He seems completely out of place in this chamber of precise suits and exquisite gowns, with his hair tangled and appearance rude.
"Apologies for the interruption." His speech is full of sarcasm and disdain. "I didn't realize we were hosting royalty tonight."
"Evan!" Mr. Mayfield hisses, his face a mask of rage.
The name clicks. Evan Mayfield—the younger brother, the black sheep of the family. The one who's always been the source of whispered gossip at parties.
"Good to see you too, Dad." his grin is sharp and unapologetic as he scans the room. His gaze lands on me, and his smirk deepens. "And who is this?"
I stiffen under his scrutiny, unsure whether to laugh or to crawl under the table.
"Evan, this is Sophia Laurent," Carter says, his tone clipped. "Our guest."
"Ah, the golden girl herself" Even ignores the daggers Carter is shooting him. He moves toward me, leaning casually against the back of my chair. "Tell me, Sophia, do you always dine with such thrilling company, or is today a special occasion?"
"Evan, that's enough." Mr. Mayfield snaps, his tone sharp.
But Evan does not back down. Instead, he looks right at me, his gaze softening just enough to suggest something genuine beneath the confidence. "You don't belong here, princess." He speaks gently, so only I can hear.
For a minute, I am too shocked to respond. But suddenly, against all logic, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch into a tiny smile.
Because he's correct. I do not belong here. And it appears that neither does he.
The tension rises when Mrs. Mayfield returns, her demeanor beautifully poised but her eyes flashing with barely hidden rage.
"A word, Evan. Now." Her tone was indifferent to disagreement.
He straightens and gives me one final knowing glance before following her out of the room. The doors close with a harsh click, leaving a tense silence in their wake.
"I apologize for my brother's behavior," Carter answers stiffly, blushing with embarrassment.
"It's fine," I say, though in truth, I'm more fascinated than insulted.
The rest of supper passes in a blur, with everyone pretending Evan's interruption did not occur.
But as I sit there, nodding along to Carter's rehearsed charm, my thoughts keep drifting back to the wild grin of the Mayfield black sheep.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, I didn't feel so alone.
-
The golden glow of the dining room has faded, and candles are flickering as we make our way to the magnificent sitting area. Classical music plays quietly in the background while beverages are served, and the air is filled with polite talk.
I stand at the far end of the room, holding a glass of sparkling water and attempting to blend in without drawing notice. Carter seemed to be enjoying a wonderful talk with his parents by the fireplace. He's the very definition of composure, with every motion designed to wow. Evan, on the other hand, has already had two drinks, his tie is loosened, and his laughter is a little too loud.
"Why don't you go talk to him?" My father's low voice cuts into my thoughts, sharp and commanding.
I glance at him, his expression impassive but his eyes full of expectation.
"Which one?" I ask though I know the answer.
"Carter." He says firmly. "Evan is a liability. The sooner you establish a connection with Carter, the better."
I suppress the temptation to argue, knowing it is pointless. My father's ideas are like steel: unyielding and impossible to break. But before I can make a move, Evan's voice breaks through the background noise.
Evan's voice rises over the background noise, carrying a cheeky edge that cuts through the room like a shard of glass.
"You know, for all this grandeur, you'd think someone would have figured out how to make a real drink."
Heads spin, sometimes with barely hidden scowls or slight gasps. Evan, resting comfortably against the grand piano, raises his glass in a faux toast. His tie is crooked, and his smirk is nothing short of symbolic.
Carter, standing by the fireplace with his parents, gives his brother a stare that could melt steel. "Evan, for God's sake—"
"Relax, big brother," Evan says, his grin broadening as he approaches the center of the room. "I'm just adding some life to the party. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
My father's gaze sharpens, his jaw tightening. He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his disapproval radiating toward me, as though Evan's behavior is somehow my responsibility to mitigate.
The tension in the room grows thick, but instead of retreating as anyone else might, Evan turns his attention back to me. He moves through the crowd with a casual arrogance, his loosened tie swinging slightly as he approaches.
"Sophia, wasn't it?" he asks, stopping just short of being too close. His voice drops, quieter but no less intense. "You don't seem like the type to enjoy these... refined circles."
I glance around, aware of the eyes on us. Carter shifts uncomfortably, clearly ready to intervene. My father's narrowed gaze weighs heavily on me from across the room. But Evan's attention is magnetic, impossible to ignore.
"I manage," I reply evenly, meeting his gaze with a calm I don't quite feel.
He chuckles, low and rough, shaking his head. "'Manage.' That's the word, isn't it? Everyone here's managing—pretending. Except you're better at it than most."
His words are a challenge, laced with an edge that's both infuriating and intriguing.
"And you?" I counter, tilting my head slightly. "What are you doing, exactly? Stirring the pot for fun?"
He raises his glass in mock agreement, his grin widening. "Someone has to. Otherwise, it's just a room full of people lying to each other over imported wine."
Before I can respond, Carter's voice cuts in, smooth but strained. "Sophia, would you like a refill?"
Evan's grin sharpens as Carter steps into the space between us, his presence a deliberate barrier.
"She's fine, Carter," Evan says, his tone dripping with mockery. "Or maybe I should ask her instead of speaking for her. Novel idea, huh?"
Carter ignores him, turning to me with a strained smile. "Can we talk for a moment?"
I hesitate, caught between Carter's calculated polish and Evan's unpredictable wildfire.
"Of course," I reply, forcing a polite smile. I set my glass down and follow Carter to the quieter side of the room, away from the curious stares.
As we walk, I can feel Evan's eyes on my back, burning with a mixture of amusement and something deeper—something that makes my pulse race despite myself.
Carter turns to me, his voice low but urgent. "Sophia, I need to apologize for my brother's behavior. He has a habit of ruining evenings like this."
"I noticed," I reply dryly, though I keep my tone light.
"I hope it hasn't soured your evening. My parents and I... we value this opportunity to get to know you better. We're all looking forward to what the future might bring."
His words are carefully chosen, a thinly veiled reference to the unspoken expectations surrounding us. I nod, my practiced smile firmly in place.
"Of course. I appreciate the effort."
But even as I say it, my thoughts drift back to Evan—his defiance, his sharp humor, and the way he saw through the façade that everyone else seems so determined to maintain.