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“She’s right here, Mom,” I say. “Now would be a great time.”

“Gloria!” Kara sings, swooping in with perfect timing to gather my mother like a storm tamer. God fucking bless her.

Mother makes a sound that isn’t a thanks and swivels toward new prey.

In the sitting room, two cousins—snobs professionally and as a hobby—strike identical poses on the sofa. Their eyes flick over Ariel as if the lack of old money is a visible stain.

“That girl from the woods,” one murmurs to the other, performatively loud.

My jaw flexes. I steer Ariel away, annoyance simmering against the need to keep the evening from detonation.

“Dinner is ready,” my father announces, sweeping in with Kara’s parents in tow. His gaze hits Ariel, and his face flushes a shade that means I’m going to need antacids.

Place cards. Of course. Ariel finds herself at the far end of the long table, exiled to Cousin Valley. I try to maneuver closer; the seating chart herds me two seats from Dad. Conversation swells and ebbs. When Ariel speaks softly and politely, she’s stepped on twice by Cousin One and by Kara’s mother, who is a delightful woman until you threaten her legacy, and then she’s a chainsaw.

Servants bring platters: meat gleaming, vegetables lacquered, bread whispering steam. Ariel serves herself only from the greens and the basket of rolls. Across the designer linen, my parents exchange a look and a low snicker that hits me like a slap.

“Didn’t think they’d be so awful,” Kara murmurs, leaning toward me, her eyes on Ariel.

“I suspected,” I murmur back, stomach hardening, “but I hoped I could buffer if she sat near me.” I push back my chair. “Are you done?”

“I can be,” Kara says, jaw tight.

Before I can say anything more, my father stands and taps his glass with a fork. The sound shivers through the room.

“Attention!” he booms, radiating patriarchal importance. “A toast. To my son, who, despite ignoring sound advice, did not die.” Laughter, high and brittle. He tips the glass in Ariel’s direction as if flicking a coin. “And to that woman for pulling him out. Nevertheless…” He savors the word. “It’s time. Everett and Kara are finally announcing their engagement.”

The world goes very quiet and very loud. Kara inhales. I forget how to. At the far end of the table, Ariel’s fork stills.

“Dad,” I rasp, fury rolling through me at him blindsiding us, “we need to talk.”

“Not now,” he says smoothly, the benevolent autocrat. He extends a small velvet box. “Here. Give this to Kara so everyone can see the moment properly.”

I catch it instinctively as he tosses it at me. The box holds my grandmother’s ring. It’s heavy with bloodlines, expectations, and a history I never wanted.

But it’s not for Kara.

And it’s not for Ariel either—not this one. She deserves a ring I choose, one that carries no ghosts, no boardroom bargains or family crests. Something that belongs only to us.

When I picture it, it’s simple—silver, maybe, with a blue stone that catches light the way her eyes do when she laughs. Something made for her, not inherited from anyone else’s idea of love.

Closing the lid, I set it on the table like it’s radioactive.

“Congratulations!” Cousin One squeals.

The room swarms me, hands and perfume and the sound of champagne. Kara’s parents close in, triumphant. Kara looks at me with a calmness that is ninety percent performance and ten percent burn it down.

My father watches, satisfied as a general who finally maneuvered his pieces into checkmate.

Fuck this.

Sometimes the only way to win a rigged game is to flip the table, and that’s precisely what Kara and I intend to do.