The Bethesda Country Club smelled of old money, rare orchids, and an overwhelming amount of hypocrisy. The grand ballroom was bathed in the warm, golden light of three massive crystal chandeliers. Waiters in crisp white jackets glided effortlessly across the polished hardwood floor, balancing silver trays laden with champagne and beluga caviar.
It was a Tuesday evening, a bizarre time for an engagement party, but my brother Tyler had insisted. He claimed it was the only date that fit into his “grueling medical rotation schedule.”
I stood in the far, darkened corner of the room, near the heavy velvet curtains, holding a glass of flat club soda. I wore a simple, elegant navy blue sheath dress—expensive, but deliberately understated. I had learned early on that blending into the shadows was the safest place to be when the Mercer family put on a show.
My mother, draped in a Carolina Herrera gown that cost more than my first car, had explicitly instructed me before I arrived. “Tonight is Tyler’s night, Myra,” she had warned, her tone sharp and devoid of maternal warmth. “Elena’s family is very prominent. Don’t mention your little hospital job. Don’t start talking about blood and guts. Just smile, stay in the background, and try to look like you’re actually looking for a husband for once.”
I had nodded and taken my place in the dark.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” My father’s voice boomed through the microphone on the small stage set up at the front of the room. He was beaming, his chest puffed out, holding up a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon. “If I could have your attention, please!”
The polite chatter of the two hundred guests died down.
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