The quiet hum of conversation had begun to pick up again—well, sort of. Most of it was awkward small talk and safe topics, like the stock market, luxury real estate, and vacation homes no one actually stayed in.
Sabrina was halfway through nervously folding her napkin into some kind of origami turtle when Cynthia's voice floated across the table like a glittery dagger.
"So," she began, smiling as she swirled the last of her wine, "when's the wedding party?"
Sabrina blinked. Her hand froze on the napkin's weird little tail.
The entire table paused again, like someone had hit a mute button on reality. Even Madeleine raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted at the fresh round of tension.
Thaddeus didn't look up from his wine glass. "There isn't one."
Cynthia feigned a laugh. "Oh, come on. You can't just spring a marriage on your family and not celebrate. That's just cruel."
Joanna Rodgers nodded with an approving hum. "A reception would be lovely. We could even help arrange something—just something tasteful, of course."
Sabrina forced a smile, polite but dangerously thin. "That's sweet of you, but I think we're good. We're not really the fireworks-and-champagne kind of couple."
"Oh, nonsense," Cynthia pressed on, lips curving like she was just getting started. "Thaddeus used to love hosting events. Remember that summer yacht party in Positano?"
Thaddeus didn't look at her. "Different chapter. Different story."
Cynthia's smile twitched. Just for a second. "Still. Everyone would love to meet your lovely wife properly." She turned her eyes to Sabrina again, softer now, syrup-thick. "I'm sure it would mean a lot. Especially for someone new to this kind of… circle."
Sabrina bit back the sarcastic comment that wanted to escape and instead gave her the kind of smile one reserves for customer complaints and overly confident food critics.
"Right. And I'll be sure to include paper name tags, so we all know where we stand."
Madeleine choked slightly on her drink and reached for a napkin, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
Mark Rodgers cleared his throat. "That's enough, Cynthia."
Cynthia lifted her glass and bowed her head slightly, the perfect picture of grace under pressure. "Of course, Dad. Just offering ideas."
Sabrina leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing just enough to let Cynthia know she wasn't fooled. Well, she didn't need a party to prove anything.
The group gradually moved from the formal dining room into the sprawling lounge just off the west wing. It was the kind of room that looked like it had been pulled straight from a luxury design magazine—floor-to-ceiling windows, a crackling fireplace that probably lit itself, and furniture that screamed look but don't sit too comfortably.
Sabrina stepped in slowly, clutching her clutch like it was a survival kit. Her heels tapped lightly against the marble before sinking into the plush rug as she awkwardly surveyed the room. Chandeliers shimmered overhead, the walls lined with expensive books she'd never have time to read, and there were at least three decorative bowls that served no actual purpose.
She hovered near the entrance, not quite sure where to stand or sit. Everyone else seemed to melt into their places like they belonged—like this whole setting was second nature.
Then, finally, Thaddeus moved to the velvet couch at the center of the room and sat down, one leg casually crossed over the other. His presence, silent but steady, was the only familiar anchor in a sea of strangers.
Sabrina made her way over, careful not to trip over any rugs, nerves, or unspoken social expectations. She sank beside him with a sigh that was meant to be subtle, but probably wasn't.
He glanced at her, and though he didn't say anything, she could tell. He knew this was all new to her. And maybe, in his own silent way, this was him trying to be there, just by sitting next to her.
But any sense of calm was short-lived. Because Cynthia appeared like an overly scented breeze, perching herself on the edge of the armchair across from them, just a little too close and too eager.
"I still remember when we used to sit in here after school," Cynthia said, looking directly at Thaddeus as if Sabrina wasn't there. "You used to complain about how boring your father's guests were and then sneak off with a whole bottle of wine from the cellar."
Sabrina raised an eyebrow, turning just enough to watch Cynthia's face carefully.
"Did I?" Thaddeus replied flatly, not looking at her.
"You did," she said with a soft, nostalgic laugh. "And then that time we got locked out on the balcony during the rainstorm. You blamed me for it."
"I don't recall."
Cynthia laughed again, undeterred. "Of course you don't. You always had a selective memory."
Sabrina shifted slightly in her seat, still silent and watching.
It wasn't just the stories—it was the way Cynthia leaned forward, the casual hair flip, the glances that lasted a second too long. Sabrina had seen enough girls at the restaurant try to flirt their way into free wine to know a crush when she saw one. Cynthia wasn't just reminiscing—she was trying to rewind.
"So," Cynthia said sweetly, finally turning her attention to Sabrina. "How are you finding the house? Must be a lot to take in."
"It's big," Sabrina said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And expensive-looking. Like walking into a museum that judges you."
Cynthia's eyes narrowed, still smiling. "Well, it'll grow on you. It took me years to get used to it."
Years?
Sabrina filed that little detail away like a mental post-it note. Cynthia had been around for years—long enough to know the wine cellar, the balcony, the family routine. Long enough to think she belonged here. Maybe still believed it.
Sabrina leaned back slightly, letting her arm brush against Thaddeus's. She didn't need to say anything. Cynthia could list all the childhood memories, all the rain-soaked wine heists and nostalgic glances she wanted, but it wouldn't change a thing.
Because at the end of the day, Cynthia was a guest here. A well-dressed, well-connected guest tried very hard to insert herself into a picture she wasn't painted.
Sabrina was the one sitting next to him now. The one Thaddeus had walked in with, dressed, introduced, and—whether he showed it or not—brought here deliberately.
Cynthia could flirt, reminisce, and circle all she wanted.
But Sabrina was the one wearing the ring.
The real, legal, and very present young Mrs. Gillcrest.
And as she caught the flicker of tension in Cynthia's eyes, the quiet way Thaddeus's hand settled on his knee just an inch closer to hers, it finally clicked.
Now she knew why Thaddeus brought her here.