Chapter 1 - The Weight of Cheap Cotton
The grandfather clock in the Sterling grand foyer struck eight, its brass chime cutting through the murmur of sixty wealthy socialites like a polished blade. I stood alone by the velvet drapes, my ankles throbbing inside sensible flat shoes, my fingers resting lightly over the firm curve of my belly. At seven months pregnant, carrying our baby boy felt like an ache that radiated down into my spine, yet Marcus hadn’t once glanced back after stepping across the threshold. He had vanished straight into the library with three private equity managers from Manhattan, his tailored Italian tuxedo crisp and spotless, leaving me stranded beside a silver platter of untouched canapés.
I smoothed the soft pale blue cotton of my dress. It had taken me three weeks of late nights under a single floor lamp to sew the bodice, adjusting the darts twice because my ribcage kept expanding. Marcus had frozen my access to our primary card twelve weeks ago, claiming that nurseries did not require premium Scandinavian cribs or organic swaddles when second-hand market items worked just fine. Yet his garage housed four collector vintage roadsters that had never tasted rainfall. When I told him earlier that evening that I’d sewn the dress myself, his eyes had flickered with visible distaste. He’d simply muttered, “Just blend in, Subeo. Don’t make people wonder why I didn't marry within our circle.”
Victoria Sterling cut through the gathering with the icy poise of a monarch inspecting her subjects. Draped in black silk and dripping in antique emeralds, my mother-in-law held a flute of champagne like a scepter. She circled me once, her gaze dropping deliberately to my midsection and the slightly imperfect hemline near my ankles.
“You truly have an astonishing lack of discretion, Subeo,” Victoria murmured, her voice lowered just enough so the nearby governor and his wife wouldn't overhear. “Look at you. You’re bulging out of that nightgown like an overfilled sack. Marcus carries the entire Sterling reputation on his shoulders, especially with the state infrastructure contracts closing this month. Did you genuinely believe our patrons wanted to stare at your bloated stomach all night?”
“I am carrying your grandson, Victoria,” I replied quietly, refusing to look down. “A child isn't an embarrassment. It’s life.”
“A child is an heir when raised with decorum,” she retorted coldly, her diamond-encrusted bracelet catching the chandelier's light. “You, however, were nothing more than a temporary novelty he found pouring lukewarm coffee on 4th Street. You never understood what it means to belong to power. Where is your tribute for my birthday? Or did you expect to eat our caviar for free while contributing nothing of substance?”
My throat went dry. I lifted the velvet-wrapped rectangular package I’d been holding against my chest. For five agonizing months, I had tracked down century-old black-and-white negatives of Victoria’s late parents, spending my meager pocket money having them chemically restored, preserved in museum-grade acid-free linen, and hand-bound in silver leaf. It was the only thing I possessed that money couldn't buy off a boutique shelf: her family’s forgotten heritage.
“I made this for you,” I said, extending it with trembling hands. “It’s your parents’ wedding archives from 1952. The ones destroyed in the Boston fire. I found the original negatives in a state archive and restored them.”
May you like
Victoria didn’t take it. She merely stared at the ribbon with curled lips. Marcus suddenly reappeared at her shoulder, holding a glass of Scotch. He didn't ask how I was feeling or notice that I was swaying slightly on my feet from exhaustion. Instead, he took the package from my hands, tore away the ribbon with an irritated flick of his thumb, and flipped open the linen cover.
“What is this junk?” Marcus scoffed, tilting the album toward his mother with a mocking grin. “Old dusty prints of people nobody remembers? Subeo, everyone here brought vintage wine, European jewelry, and corporate donations. Did you actually think my mother wanted a school arts-and-crafts project for her sixtieth gala?”
