The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Her smirk faltered, just a touch, before she reapplied it like armor.
Because unlike her mother,Brianawasn’t resigned to her fate.Shestill had fight left in her.Shestill had the ability to shape the story, to twist it, to make people look atRosethe way she wanted them to.
The whispers weren’t just entertainment.Theywere power.
Briana crossed her legs, the hem of her silk robe sliding against her thigh as she set her phone on the side table.Herglass of wine caught the lamplight, rich red liquid glowing like blood in the cut-crystal goblet.Shesipped it slowly, savoring the burn as it slipped down her throat.
Every whisper that spread through town was like that wine—warm, intoxicating, filling her up in ways she hadn’t felt in years.
Rose, perfectRose, with her clean little coffee shop and her neat little softball team, pretending she was the queen ofPickwickBend.
It madeBriana’steeth ache just thinking about it.
She remembered those days in high school, howRosehad been the golden one.Alwayssteady, always dependable, always liked.Teacherspraised her, boys orbited her, evenAcen- back then, the boy everyone wanted - had looked at her with eyes thatBrianahad wanted for herself.
Briana had learned then that admiration was a form of currency in this town.Andshe’d spent twenty years trying to prove she could buy more thanRoseever could.Shehad gone out, she had lived, she hadescaped.
But when she fell—when the money dried up, when the doors closed, when the people who had once clapped for her stopped answering her calls where had she ended up?
Right back where she started.
Back in the rocking chair.
Back under her mother’s roof, though her mother was long gone.
The humiliation of that burned deeper than anythingRosecould ever say or do.
Which was whyRosehad to fall too.
Briana tilted her head, watching her reflection in the darkened window across the room.Herface was still beautiful.Highcheekbones, glossy hair, lips painted the perfect shade of red.Butbeneath it, she could see the shadows.Thefine lines where laughter had been replaced with calculation.Theslight hollowness at her cheeks that no amount of makeup could fully disguise.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, letting the rocking chair sway with her movement.
She whispered it aloud, just to taste the words in the air.
“They’ll eat her alive.”
It was true.Thistown didn’t need proof.Theyneeded suggestion.Theyneeded the spark of an idea, and then they would fan it into a blaze with their own breath.Thatwas how small towns worked.Nobodyadmitted to loving gossip, but everybody did.Itwas the currency, the entertainment, the lifeblood.
AndRose’slife was ripe for it.
Briana didn’t have to lie.Shedidn’t even have to push too hard.Allshe had to do was tilt her head, smile faintly, and let her words trail off in the right direction.
“Bless her heart.”
That was enough.
Becausebless her heartwasSouthernforwait until you hear this.
Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another message.Thisone wasn’t a question.Itwas a statement.
“Never thought she’d let something like that happen.”
Briana’s smile sharpened as she typed back:“Meneither.”
Send.
