2. The Last Supper
I returned to the Sterling estate in Greenwich after nightfall. Floodlights bathed the mansion in harsh brilliance, transforming it from a home into a fortress.
In the formal dining room, the table was laid with a feast worthy of royalty. Yet no one was eating.
Arthur sat at the head of the table. He didn’t raise his voice to dominate the room; his silence alone was enough to suffocate it.
To his left sat Julian. He leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his phone, his handsome profile carved from indifference. He looked less like a man at dinner with his wife and more like someone waiting for an unimportant meeting to end.
I changed my shoes and walked toward the table, heading instinctively for my usual seat beside Julian.
“Sit at the end,” Arthur ordered. His voice was sharp. He gestured toward the far edge of the table—the seat reserved for distant guests and disposable associates.
I paused for half a second.
Julian didn’t look up. His fingers continued moving across the screen, his attention fixed on something—or someone—else.
I walked to the end of the table and sat. The leather chair was cold against my skin.
A maid placed a setting in front of me without a word. I caught the flash of pity in her eyes. I offered a small nod in return.
This was the ritual. For three years, Sterling dinners were never about food. They were performances—carefully staged reminders that I was tolerated, not accepted. A permanent outsider in my own marriage.
“Now that we’re all here, eat,” Arthur said.
He took the first bite. Only then did Julian set his phone aside and eat with polished, mechanical precision. He never once looked at me. I may as well not have existed.
I lifted my fork, but the food tasted like dust. Tonight felt different. Arthur’s gaze lingered longer, heavier—decisive.
I sensed the blade hanging overhead. I didn’t ask when it would fall. I simply waited.
“Nora,” Arthur said, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin. “My study. Now.”
