Julian didn’t see Maria. To him, she was furniture. A prop in his play of aristocracy.

“Your fiancée seems lovely,” I tried, attempting to bridge the chasm one last time. “I haven’t met her yet.”

“And you won’t,” Julian said, stepping closer, his cologne overpowering the scent of pine. “She comes from a family that traces its lineage back to the Mayflower. She doesn’t need to meet a woman who thinks a casserole is a proper dinner. You embarrass me, Mother. Your clothes, your mannerisms, your desperate need to be included… it’s pathetic.”

The words hit me like physical blows, but I stood my ground. “This is a party for the elite, Julian?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” he sneered. “This is a party for the elite, Mother, not a nursing home waiting room. Get out before the guests arrive!”

He grabbed my arm then. His grip was bruising, tight enough to leave marks on my fragile skin.

“I’m done hiding you,” he spat, his face inches from mine. “And I’m done waiting for nature to take its course. Since you won’t stay in your room, you can leave the property entirely. Tonight.”

The heavy oak doors swung open, letting in a gust of freezing wind and swirling snow. The blizzard outside was a white wall, erasing the world beyond the porch.