The ballroom glittered as though it had been dipped in champagne. Crystal chandeliers spilled light like liquid gold, cascading over marble floors polished to mirror brightness. Every corner shimmered, every reflection dazzled. Waitresses moved quietly through the crowd, their trays lined with flutes of champagne that sparkled with a thousand restless bubbles.
The room was filled entirely with women, a sea of silk and satin, perfume and pearls. Laughter rose in ripples, practiced and polite, never quite reaching anyone's eyes. Everywhere I looked, there were diamonds glinting at throats, sequins catching the chandeliers' fire, gowns flowing like rivers of color.
I adjusted the folds of my navy gown, the silk cool against my skin. Diamonds pressed a weight at my collarbone, a reminder of the role I carried. As I moved through the room, compliments followed like moths drawn to a flame.
"Mrs. Deverell, your gown is exquisite."
"Such elegance, Mrs. Deverell, you always set the tone."
"That necklace is divine, how does one even find diamonds cut like that?"
I returned each with a smile that felt polished into habit. "You are too kind." "Thank you, it is generous of you to say." Words rehearsed long ago, polished until they gleamed, hollow as the crystal flutes balanced in manicured hands.
At the center of the room stood Mrs. Faraday, crimson satin draped across her figure like a stage curtain. She laughed so loudly it rang above the music, her champagne glass tilted at a dangerous angle as she recounted, for the third time this season, her month on the Amalfi coast. She waved her hand as though painting a canvas of her own magnificence, describing sunlit villas and private yachts. I had heard the same story before, down to the same exaggerated pauses. Tonight, only the guest names she dropped had changed.
By the fountain stood Dr. Harrington, pearls swinging against the deep green of her gown. She leaned close to Mrs. Pritchard, her words hushed but sharp, a blade concealed in velvet. I caught fragments as I passed: "so young" and "third marriage already." Mrs. Pritchard pressed her lips against the rim of her glass, fighting a smile she could not quite suppress. Their laughter, smothered behind jeweled fingers, was sharper than the champagne itself.
Not far from them, Mrs. Ellsworth declared loudly that her charity had raised "millions, simply millions" this year. She clutched her pearls for emphasis, as though the gems themselves confirmed her virtue. Mrs. Danvers, beside her, nodded eagerly and launched into her own monologue about her daughter's brilliance at Cambridge, recounting each grade as though it were a crown jewel.
It was all performance. Every word, every smile, every glance. A carousel of vanity circling endlessly under chandeliers that glowed too brightly.
And then she appeared. Clarissa Gale.
She did not demand attention; it bent toward her naturally. Draped in emerald satin, her hair swept perfectly from her shoulders, she moved as though the room belonged to her. Twice divorced, sister to the governor, Clarissa was as notorious as she was admired. Some called her reckless, others envied her courage. To me, she was simply untamed.
She reached me with a smile that was warm and bold, pressing an air-kiss to my cheek. "Darling, navy becomes you. You look divine."
"Thank you, Clarissa," I said smoothly, the words as polished as my smile.
Her eyes glinted. "And tell me, how do you keep yourself busy when you are not dazzling us all at nights like these?"
The answer came automatically. "Charity boards, occasional travel, supporting Maxwell's initiatives."
Clarissa's smile did not falter, but her silence pressed heavier than words. She tilted her head, her voice lowering with deliberate softness.
"That is not living, my dear. That is existing through your husband. What do you do for yourself?"
The question sliced through the polished air. My lips parted but no reply came. The chandeliers still glittered, women still laughed, but the words seemed to echo louder than all of it.
I forced a laugh, brittle and thin. "You always ask the boldest questions, Clarissa."
"Someone has to." Her smile widened, her eyes steady with a mischief that felt almost like truth. And then, as if nothing had passed between us, she drifted away. Her laughter carried across the room as she joined another circle, leaving me with the taste of flat champagne and silence lodged in my chest.
I stood where she had left me, the weight of diamonds pressing harder, the room spinning in endless vanity. Women around me laughed, boasted, whispered scandals, praised themselves. The chandeliers burned brighter and the perfume thickened in the air.
But all I could hear was Clarissa's question, echoing louder than the music.
What do you do for yourself?