Sunday dinner at the Ellisons' feels like a theater with higher stakes.The dining room gleams. Crystal catches candlelight. Every surface polished to reflection.
Mrs. Ellison sits at the head of the table like a queen holding court. Pearls at her throat. Blonde hair styled in waves. Smile sharp beneath the grace.
"Maya, dear, have you given any thought to wedding colors?"
I force my fork through a roast that tastes like sawdust. "Not really."
"Spring would be lovely. Pastels. Very traditional." She refills her wine glass. "Of course, we'll need at least eight months to plan properly. A year would be better."
"Emma, let the girl breathe." Mr. Ellison cuts his meat with precision. "They're young. Plenty of time."
"Time passes quickly, Michael. Best to start early." She turns to Mom. "Rachel, you understand. These things require proper planning."
"Absolutely." Mom's smile is eager. "We want everything perfect."
I dig my nails into my palms under the table. Grant sits across from me. His jaw tightens incrementally with each comment. A muscle ticks near his temple.
"And of course, the ceremony should reflect your values." Mrs. Ellison dabs her mouth with a napkin. "Traditional vows. Nothing modern or casual. This is a sacred commitment."
"Exactly right." Dad nods. "Marriage is a covenant. Not to be entered lightly."
"Speaking of sacred commitments." Mrs. Ellison's ice blue eyes find mine. "I was reading about my grandmother's generation recently. They had such beautiful traditions we've lost."
"Like what?" Mom leans forward.
"Purity tests before marriage. To ensure the bride was truly virtuous." She sighs wistfully. "Can you imagine? Such certainty. Such protection for both families."
Mom nods. "That does sound reassuring."
Grant's fork clatters against his plate. "Mother."
"What, dear? I'm simply making conversation."
"You're being invasive."
"I'm discussing traditions." Her smile doesn't waver. "Nothing wrong with that."
My face burns. The belt presses against my hip like evidence. Like accusation. Like proof of the lie I'm living at this very table—freed in secret while they discuss my theoretical purity like it's still theirs to safeguard.
Mr. Ellison shifts the subject to business. He and Dad discuss investments while assessing me peripherally. Bloodlines. Breeding. Acceptable return on investment.
"Good families produce good children." Mr. Ellison cuts another piece of meat. "Proper raising matters."
"We've been very intentional with Maya." Dad's voice carries pride. "Structure. Discipline. Values."
"It shows." Mrs. Ellison smiles at me. "You're exactly the kind of girl we hoped Grant would choose."
"That's kind." The words taste like ash. Grant didn’t choose anything.
Dessert arrives. Chocolate mousse in crystal cups. I force down three bites before my stomach rebels.
"Maya, you've barely eaten." Mom's voice carries worry. "Are you feeling well?"
"Just full. Everything was delicious."
"You need to eat more, dear." Mrs. Ellison's concern sounds practiced. "Can't have you wasting away before the wedding."
"I'm fine."
"Of course you are." She pats my hand. "Just nervous. Perfectly natural."
Grant stands abruptly. "Mother, could Maya and I see your rose garden? You mentioned the blooms were exceptional this year."
Mrs. Ellison's eyes narrow slightly. Then she smiles. "Of course, dear. Don't stay out too long. Mosquitoes."
"We won't."
The garden stretches behind the house in manicured perfection. Roses climb trellises. Honeysuckle sweetens the air. Solar lights cast everything in soft gold.
Grant walks ten paces before his composure shatters.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For her. For all of it." He runs both hands through his hair. "The purity test comment. Jesus Christ."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." He turns to face me. "They're obsessed with control. Both our parents. This whole dinner. It's not even about us."
"I know."
"The key to my trust fund I told you about." His voice goes bitter. "My mother keeps it in her bedroom safe."
I stare at him. Really see him. The tension in his shoulders. The exhaustion in his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"The key to your belt." He glances back at the house. "It's here. In that safe."
My pulse jumps. "How do you know?"
"My mother made a comment to yours last week. About 'safeguarding important things' in her safe." His jaw tightens. "She has it. I'm certain."
The information should feel like hope. Like possibility. Instead, I just feel tired.
Tired of adults treating my body like property. Like something to be locked and bargained over and controlled.
"What do we do?"
"I don't know yet." He reaches for my hand. "But we'll figure it out."
His thumb traces my knuckles. The gesture that's become familiar. Comforting.
I think about last night. Jordan's hands. The desperate wanting. The guilt that followed.
Grant deserves better than this. Better than me.
"We should go back inside." I pull my hand away gently. "Before they come looking."
"Yeah." He studies my face. "You okay?"
"Just tired."
"I know the feeling."
We walk back toward the house. Through the French doors, I see Mrs. Ellison standing in the dining room. Watching us. Her expression carries satisfaction. Like she's witnessed exactly what she wanted to see.
The realization hits cold and certain.
She's not just controlling Grant through money. She's using me as another lock. Another chain. The engagement isn't about our happiness or even about tradition.
It's about keeping her son exactly where she wants him.
And I'm the tool she's chosen to do it.
Grant opens the door. We step inside. Mrs. Ellison's smile widens.
"Did you enjoy the garden?"
"It's beautiful." My voice sounds hollow.
"I'm so glad." She looks between us. "You two make such a lovely couple. Don't they, Rachel?"
"Absolutely." Mom beams.
Grant's hand finds mine. Squeezes once. A silent apology. Or maybe solidarity.
We're both trapped. And his mother knows it. Planned for it. Built our prison from expectations and money and the weight of family obligations we never asked for.
I think about the key. Locked in her bedroom safe alongside Grant's trust fund.
Both of us bought and paid for. Both of us owned.
The only difference is she calls his cage an inheritance.
And mine protection.
But bars are bars. No matter what you call them.