Everything in the air smells like money, like fresh roses, old whiskey, and the kind of perfume you don’t ask the name of because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
I adjust my coat, smooth my dress, and feel the quiet power settle in my chest. I am not just showing up. I belong here. This is the start of me burning this family apart from the inside out.
As the heavy doors open with a graceful swing, we walk in, head high, heart steady, ready for whatever waits inside.
A few guests turn their heads to stare at us. Some smile and nod, others whisper in groups. The unspoken mystery of me disappearing and then returning. It makes me smile. Let them talk. The more gossip, the better. Mrs Belfour hates gossip when it’s about her.
Greg leads me through the crowd in reception waiting to enter the grand hall and takes me up a separate staircase to the VIP lounge.
As we enter the lounge it hums with exclusivity and glamour.The air is perfumed with the scent of winter roses and white peonies, mingling with hints of mulled wine and vintage champagne. Snowflake projections dance across the marble floor as a soft, ambient glow radiates from antique candelabras and shimmering chandeliers made to resemble icicles.
Inside, the city’s most stylish elite recline on tufted velvet sofas in deep sapphire and frosted silver. Beside them, low tables of polished mirror glass hold towers of canapés, blinis with caviar, truffled arancini, and miniature beef Wellingtons, served by waiters in tailored white jackets. A private mixologist crafts bespoke cocktails behind a bar carved from clear ice, each drink garnished with gold leaf or sugared cranberries.
An intimate string quartet plays a modern twist on classical pieces, their music drifting beneath the low murmur of conversation and laughter.
A balcony overlooks the ballroom below with the crowds now flowing in through the doors at reception. A flurry of conversation about business, the elaborate venue and who has the best dress fills the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the twinkly lights of the city and snow machines above the hall create a cascade of flakes that swirl around the guests.
Back in the VIP area there is a heated terrace lit by fire pits and fairy lights. It gives sanctuary to the smokers and secret conversations to be had as the night starts.
It is more than a lounge. It is a place of indulgence for these people in the heart of winter’s fantasy, where whispered deals, fleeting flirtations and high-society secrets settle like frost on the glass.
The small elite of VIPs stop in conversation to look at us, smiling under their masquerade masks.
A waiter appears and walks us over to a table where Mrs and Mr Belfour are already sitting.
Her, a vision of the devil in red. Her eyes widen and a smirkappears as we arrive in front of her.
“Gregory, darling.” She stands and air kisses his cheeks from across the table. “Gorgeous, darling. Black is always a good choice on you.” She looks her son up and down, approving his chosen wear like he is a child.
She then directs her eyes to me. “And my darling daughter-in-law, Harriet, what a beautiful dress.” She smiles to herself in a self-gratifying way.
I don’t react. I don’t smile. I sit.
Greg follows suit and sits next to me. Greg’s father awkwardly drinks his drink then breaks his uncomfortable silence. “I’m just going to go and see Martin.” He points across the room to my father who is stood with a group of men in suits, laughing and drinking.
My fingers burn at the sight of him, knowing what he has done to my mother. To me. It takes all my strength not to run over there and rip out his throat. I don’t react. I just sit and stare at Mrs Belfour.
She smiles at her husband as he stands to leave. “Of course, darling.” Then she returns her gaze to me.
I never noticed before, but Mr Belfour fears Mrs Belfour. I always thought it was him just keeping himself to himself. But I can see the fear in his eyes as he talks to her. She is a strong lady and obviously wears the trousers in the household.
“You discuss business, and we will discuss family.” She waves her hand, dismissing him like he is one of the many waiters serving the guests.
Her mouth smirks as my gaze does not fold. I stare at her with deadly intent.
She clears her throat continuing to smile. “Now, I know this all feels a bit off, darlings, but trust me, it is going to work out for the best. Drink?” Her smile grows as she clicks her fingers at a passing waiter who quickly makes his way to us with a tray ofchampagne. He places the glasses before us, frosted cranberries gleaming at the bottom of the flute.
“Anything else, madam?” the waiter asks Mrs Belfour, his face trying to hide the fear that is under his skin.
She looks him up and down in a way a tiger looks at a deer. “That’s all.” She smiles at him, licking her red lips. “For now.”
The young man leaves as quickly as he arrived.
I can’t hide my disgust as I look at her. She knows it as well, but she is not bothered. She relishes in the discomfort of others.
“Now, plan of the evening, Harriet: smile, smile, smile.” She lifts her hands over her face showing a large fake smile.
I roll my eyes and force a fake smile out to match hers.
