We wind through the Ellisons' gated neighborhood. Every house looks like a magazine spread. Columns. Marble steps. Hedges so perfect they might as well be plastic.
When the car stops, I catch my reflection in the window. Calm on the surface. Fury flickering underneath.
Inside, the Ellison house is museum-quiet. Everything is too big. Too expensive. The foyer alone could swallow our entire living room. Oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. A staircase that curves like something from a movie. Fresh flowers the size of my head arranged in vases that look like they belong behind velvet ropes.
Mom gushes over the décor. "Emma, this is stunning. Absolutely stunning."
"Thank you, Rachel. We had the foyer redone last spring."
Dad and Mr. Ellison shake hands, already discussing business. Their voices fade as we move deeper into the house.
"We thought the young people might like to get acquainted." Mrs. Ellison gestures toward double doors. "Dinner is set in the formal dining room. We'll have cocktails in the sitting room."
"What a lovely idea." Mom beams at me. "Maya, go ahead."
The doors close behind us with a soft click. It sounds too much like a trap.
The dining room stretches long and formal. Candles flicker on a table set for two. Grant sits at one end, already halfway through his wine. He's handsome in that effortless way that comes from good genes and better money. Sharp jaw. Careless sandy blonde hair. A smile that probably works on most girls.
He doesn't stand when I enter. Doesn't greet me. Just glances up, then back at his glass. I take the seat across from him. Wait for him to say something. Anything.
He leans back in his chair like he owns not just the room but the entire concept of sitting.
"So." He swirls his glass. "How does it feel being auctioned off like a prize heifer?"
My hand freezes on my water glass. "Excuse me?"
"Come on. We both know what this is. Your parents parade you around, my parents write the check. Very Old Testament."
I set down my glass carefully. "I didn't realize you had such strong opinions about arranged marriages."
"I don't. I think they're hilarious." He grins. "No offense."
"Right. None taken."
A server appears with the first course. Some kind of salad with edible flowers. Grant doesn't touch it.
"I spent last semester in Berlin. Have you been?"
"No."
"You'd probably like it. The art scene is incredible. Not like here, where everything's so aggressively shallow." He takes another sip of wine.
"Sounds nice."
"You travel much?"
"Not really."
"Shame." He takes another sip. "Europe is very liberating. You should go sometime." The way he says it makes my skin prickle. "So what do you do? Besides being the perfect daughter?"
"I like art. I want to study it."
"Art. That's cute." He says it like I've told him I collect dolls. "My parents wanted me to study business. I told them I'd rather die."
"What did you study instead?"
"Philosophy. Much more useful." He laughs at his own joke. "But really, the whole college thing is overrated. It's just another way for institutions to maintain control."
The main course arrives. Fish with foam that looks like soap bubbles. Grant pushes it around his plate.
"You don't talk much, do you?" He leans forward, studying me like I'm an exhibit. "Is that a purity thing or are you just boring?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Maybe I don't have anything to say to you."
"Ouch." He laughs, unbothered. "See, that's better. I was starting to think they'd programmed you." He grins. "Your parents seem like the type. Very traditional. Very controlled."
"They have their beliefs."
"Beliefs." He scoffs. "That's a polite word for it.”
I want to throw my water in his face. Instead, I cut my fish into smaller and smaller pieces. Imagining each one is his smug expression.
He keeps talking. About his car. His startup idea. Some party in the Hamptons where "everyone interesting" was. The words blur into a hum of self-importance.
"The problem with American culture," he says, gesturing with his fork, "is that everyone's terrified of being honest. They hide behind politeness and tradition instead of just saying what they think."
"Maybe politeness has value."
"Does it? Or is it just another way to control people?" He gestures with his wine glass. "Take this dinner. We're playing roles. Pretending we’re interested."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Aren't you?" He tilts his head. "You're sitting here, making small talk, being the good girl they raised you to be. That's not honesty. That's performance."
"And what are you doing?"
"Being myself. Which apparently makes me the villain." He smirks. "But at least I'm authentic."
"I think you can be authentic without being rude."
"Rude." He grins. "That's what people say when you tell them something they don't want to hear."
By dessert, my patience is threadbare.
"The truth is, traditional values are just performance art for people afraid of reality. Marriage, purity, all of it. It's about control disguised as virtue."
My hands grip the edge of the table. Every word out of his mouth makes me want to scream.
"And what's your reality? Sitting here insulting everything while pretending you're above it all?"
"I'm not pretending. I am above it. At least I'm not lying to myself about what this is."
"You're a jerk."
The words drop into the silence. Grant blinks, wine glass halfway to his lips. For one satisfying second, he looks genuinely surprised.
Then he smirks. "Wow. Okay."
Something inside me snaps completely.
"You want authentic? Fine. You've spent this entire dinner trying to prove how smart you are, how enlightened, how different from everyone else. But all you've done is insult me, insult my family, and act like being rude is the same thing as being honest. You didn't stand when I walked in. You didn't even greet me. You've talked about yourself nonstop, interrupted me constantly, and made it clear you think I'm beneath you. And you know what the worst part is? You think this makes you interesting. You think being condescending and arrogant is the same as having a personality. But it's not. It's just sad. You're not rebelling against anything. You're just being—"
The double doors open.
Mom and Dad stand in the doorway. Mrs. Ellison behind them. All three staring.
The silence stretches impossibly long.
Grant's smirk is gone. My heart hammers in my throat.
Mom's face has gone perfectly blank. Dad's jaw tightens.
"Maya." His voice is quiet. Deadly. "We're leaving. Now."