I flinched, my hands gripping the edge of the table. “I used the recipe you gave me, Victoria. The one from the chef in Milan.”
“Then you lack the palate to execute it,” she sneered, her fingers stroking the diamonds at her throat as if comforting a pet. “Just like the way you keep this house. It feels… common. Stale.”
I looked to my right. James was there, meticulously cutting his steak. He didn’t look up. He didn’t pause. He chewed with a rhythmic, maddening consistency.
“James?” I whispered, a desperate plea for a lifeline. “I spent all afternoon on this.”
He took a sip of wine, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and finally glanced at me. His eyes were void of empathy. They were the eyes of a man who had learned that the path of least resistance was to become invisible. “Just try harder next time, Emily. Mother has high standards. You know that.”
My heart sank. It wasn’t the criticism; it was the abandonment. It was the daily confirmation that in the court of Blackwood Manor, I was the defendant, Victoria was the judge, and my husband was a mute spectator.
