The champagne was perfectly chilled, the seven-course tasting menu had been confirmed with the chef, and the three-tiered birthday cake stood as a magnificent testament to Italian culinary artistry.
— “Is everything to your satisfaction, Signora Richardson?” asked Marco, the maître d’, his expression one of professional deference.
— “Perfect,” I replied, the word tasting like ash in my mouth, knowing with certainty that this would be the final event I ever planned for the Richardson family. Despite the maelstrom of betrayal and hurt churning within me, my professional pride demanded nothing less than absolute excellence.
I returned to the hotel to change, slipping into the midnight blue Valentino gown I had purchased specifically for this occasion. As I applied my makeup with hands that were remarkably steady, I studied my own reflection in the mirror. Five years of relentlessly trying to assimilate into a world that was fundamentally determined to reject me had certainly taken its toll, but not in the way the Richardsons might have hoped. Instead of breaking my spirit, they had forged it into something harder, something resilient.
The Richardson family had arranged to convene in the hotel lobby before proceeding to the restaurant as a group. I arrived at the designated time with pinpoint precision, finding them all assembled and waiting. Catherine was a vision of splendor in vintage Chanel, the diamonds of her necklace catching and fracturing the light. Ethan’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he saw me, a flicker of an expression that might have been a memory of what had once attracted him to me, or perhaps, a cold calculation of how soon he could finally be free of me.
— “Jessica, darling, you look absolutely lovely,” Catherine purred, bestowing upon me a pair of air-kisses that landed inches from my cheeks. “We’re just waiting for the cars to arrive.”
The drive to the restaurant was brief, the silence filled with a strained, artificial chatter about the day’s excursions, from which I had been deliberately excluded. As we ascended in the private elevator to the rooftop terrace, Ethan placed a proprietary hand on the small of my back—a gesture that had once felt intimate and protective, but now seemed utterly performative, a hollow act for the benefit of the elevator attendant. The doors slid open to reveal the stunningly beautiful terrace I had personally designed, now transformed into an impossibly elegant dining space beneath a canopy of stars. The Colosseum stood illuminated against the deep velvet of the night sky, a silent monument to both immense grandeur and the inevitable decay of empires. How fitting, I thought.
Catherine made her grand entrance first, and was met with a chorus of enthusiastic applause from the family members who had already gathered. One by one, they all made their way towards the large, circular table I had specified in my plans—a table that was meant to seat thirteen people. I trailed just behind Ethan, who moved with a clear sense of purpose toward his designated seat, right next to his mother.
I approached the spot between Ethan and his uncle where my own place card should have been, only to discover an empty void—no chair, no place setting, not even the slightest acknowledgment that I was supposed to exist. For a brief, suspended moment, I stood there, frozen, the perfect living tableau of bewilderment. All around me, conversations buzzed and laughter flowed as everyone settled into their seats, all of them studiously, deliberately avoiding my gaze. The waitstaff, the very same people who had confirmed the final seating arrangement with me only hours before, looked visibly uncomfortable but remained professionally silent.
— “Is something the matter?” Catherine inquired, her voice laced with a feigned innocence, yet pitched just loud enough to command the attention of the entire table.
— “There seems to have been a mistake,” I said, my own voice a marvel of composure that belied the fury raging within me. “My place setting appears to be missing.”
The meticulously choreographed performance then unfolded exactly as they had scripted it. Brows furrowed in mock concern. Glances were exchanged across the table. Ethan made a show of half-rising from his chair, a pantomime of husbandly concern that never once managed to reach his cold, calculating eyes.
— “That’s so strange,” Charlotte remarked, her eyes scanning the table with exaggerated scrutiny. “Did someone miscount?”
William cleared his throat.
— “Perhaps there was some miscommunication with the restaurant staff.”
And then came Ethan’s line, the one he had rehearsed, delivered with a practiced, casual air that made my skin crawl. He let out a small chuckle—he actually chuckled—and said, “Whoops, I guess we miscounted.”
The family responded with laughter. It wasn’t uproarious—that would have been too crude, too obvious. It was a gentle, refined amusement, the kind shared among people who are all privy to the same cruel, inside joke. In that singular, crystalizing moment, I saw their entire scheme with perfect, horrifying clarity. The calculated humiliation, the public venue chosen specifically to deter me from making a scene, the careful laying of groundwork for the narrative they would later spin about poor, unstable Jessica, who simply couldn’t handle the pressures of life as a Richardson.
My gaze traveled slowly around the table, lingering on each of their faces. Catherine, looking triumphant behind her serene birthday smile. William, visibly uncomfortable but utterly complicit. Charlotte and David, clearly relishing the spectacle. Their spouses, possessing just enough awareness of the cruelty to look faintly ashamed, but not nearly enough to voice an objection. And finally, Ethan. My husband. The man who had once vowed to stand with me against the entire world, now watching me with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a lab rat in a maze.
I could have created a scene. I could have screamed and demanded a chair. I could have exposed their entire sordid plan in front of the restaurant staff, creating the sort of public scandal that would be whispered about in family lore for generations to come. That, I realized, was precisely what they expected, what they had prepared for. Catherine would then have the perfect opportunity to comfort her son over his emotionally volatile wife, and the narrative for their divorce would write itself.
