Margaret's lips thin slightly, but she doesn't argue. A server refills her water glass before it's half empty.
The salad vanishes. Butternut squash soup appears in fine china bowls, garnished with crispy sage and a swirl of cream.
The first spoonful is a revelation. Silky smooth, perfectly seasoned, with a depth of flavor that suggests hours of careful preparation. The sage adds an earthy note that makes me think of Mira's garden, of home.
I could eat this every day and never tire of it.
Calder is relaxed. No tension in his shoulders. No careful management of emotions. He contributes to conversations, laughs at Marcus's dry humor, even teases his father about a recent business decision. This is Calder in his element. Born to this, raised for this, comfortable in ways I'll never fully understand.
But when he looks at me, includes me in conversations without making it obvious, I see who he chose to be instead of who he was raised to be.
A palate cleanser arrives between courses, lemon sorbet in tiny crystal cups. Margaret calls it an "intermezzo." I nod like I've heard the term before.
The main course comes on silver platters. Herb-crusted lamb with rosemary demi-glace, roasted root vegetables that look like art, potato gratin that could make me weep. A server appears at my elbow, offering wine. I accept because refusing seems rude, though I barely touch it.
Throughout it all, Calder navigates the meal with the ease of someone who grew up with white glove service. Knows which glass is for which wine. Uses the right fork without thinking. Makes polite conversation while eating with perfect posture.
But his hand finds mine between courses, hidden beneath the table. Thumb brushing my knuckles. Reminding me he's still the alpha who built a nest with me, who held me through heat, who chose me over all of this polish and perfection.
When Margaret asks about my studies, her tone is polite but not warm. Professional interest, not personal.
I tell her about working with Mira on herbal medicine. About wanting to open a practice someday.
"That's ambitious," she observes, cutting her lamb with precise movements. "Running your own practice requires significant capital. Licensing. Insurance. Have you considered the barriers?"
"I'm focused on finishing school first," I say carefully. "Learning as much as I can."
"Practical." She dabs her mouth with her napkin. "Though ambition without planning is simply dreaming."
The words sting, even delivered in that polite, neutral tone.
But Robert interjects. "Everyone starts somewhere, Margaret. The girl has time to plan. She's still in school."
"Of course." Margaret's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
A cheese course appears, three types I can't pronounce, accompanied by fig jam and thin crackers.
"This is aged Manchego from Spain," Margaret says, gesturing to the first. Her tone is polite but flat, like a tour guide who's given the same speech too many times. "Pairs well with the fig. The brie is French, obviously. Quite mild. And this—" she indicates the blue-veined cheese, "—is Roquefort. An acquired taste."
I try the Manchego first. It's nutty and rich, the fig jam cutting through the saltiness in a way that makes me want more. The brie melts on my tongue, buttery, delicate, perfect.
Then I make the mistake of trying the Roquefort.
It hits my tongue like an assault, sharp, pungent, almost metallic. I manage not to spit it out, but barely. Swallow hard, reach for my water glass with what I hope looks like casual thirst rather than desperate need.
The water helps. Marginally.
Under the table, Calder's hand finds my knee and squeezes. He knows. Of course he knows.
I set down my water glass with careful composure, hoping the grimace I'm fighting doesn't show on my face.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. Marcus asks about campus life. Tyler discusses omega advocacy work. Julian shares research findings that actually interest Robert.
And Margaret… Margaret is trying. I can see the effort, but every gesture feels calculated. Every comment carefully neutral.
She's tolerating me. For Calder's sake. Because she sees how happy he is.
But acceptance? Real acceptance? That's still a bridge too far.
