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"A merger," Mr. Willoughby declares, "that will not only benefit our enterprises but also bring our families closer together in ways we have only imagined."
A murmur of surprise and polite applause ripples through the room.
“To new beginnings.”
Everyone clinks their glasses, and Madeline lowers to her seat once more.
I feel a growing unease, my gaze flitting between Mr. Willoughby and Madeline.
"Do you know anything about this? What is he talking about?" I whisper to William.
He shook his head slightly. "Not exactly. I mean, I knew he wanted me to”…"
He stops and looks warily around him as though he just remembered we aren’t alone.
“Later,” he murmurs into my ear.
I nod and start cutting my steak.
I try to process the implications of this announcement, but my thoughts are a whirlwind.
The room seemed to close in around me, the clatter of cutlery and murmurs of the other guests merging into a distant hum.
Madeline's sickly sweet voice cuts through my reverie. "It's such a small world, isn't it, Emily? To think our paths would cross again like this."
I force a polite smile, my mind racing. "Yes, the Universe sure has a sense of humor," I say through gritted teeth.
Madeline acts like she doesn’t know that she was the meanest girl on the planet. Her parents are old friends with Sasha’s grandmother. So, every summer when they came to SnowdropValley to stay in their vacation home, Sasha would come with Madeline.
She made my life miserable.
One year, she cut off one of my bunches with a pair of shears. My mom was forced to give me a short bob that made me look like a scarecrow all through sixth grade.
Another summer, she pulled my skirt down and pushed me into a cow pat. Right in front of my middle school crush.
At first, I wonder why Sasha didn’t tell me that Madeline is trying to get her claws into William’s company. But then, how could Sasha have known? She hates Madeline as much as I do, I doubt they keep in touch.
I feel a sudden chill, despite the warm ambiance of the room.
I stroke William's fingers, seeking comfort, but he pulls away, his discomfort clear.
Madeline, undeterred, continues her reminiscing. "I remember you and your friend running around that old house in that silly little town...what was it called again? Sun drop something?"
"Snowdrop Valley," William and I reply in unison, our voices laced with a shared irritation.
I sense his annoyance, mirroring my own, at Madeline's calculated words.
The rest of dinner passes by in a blur of graces and small talk.
My shoulders ache from the tension, and the food is surprisingly bland. It sits in my stomach like a rock, and even a sip of the finest champagne does nothing to lift my mood.
So, this is William’s world.
I’m no stranger to the sophisticated, wealthy world of art. But I usually hang out with the actual artists - who are much more fun at parties than the gallery owners. That’s for sure.
So far, all I’ve heard are conversations about the stock market and political right-wing debates. And not one person has cracked a joke. Not even a genuine smile.
Is this my life now? And just how entwined are the Willoughbys getting with the Lonnelles?
