“Let’s get together sometime, just us two,” Saanvi said. “We should make a monthly wine date.”

“I would love that.” She would. But when? Was Saanvi just being her kind self? Would it be rude to whip out her phone and force her to commit?

“Oh, there’s Ellen. I haven’t see her in ages! Thank you again for having us, Juliet. This house is such a showplace.” Saanvi smiled and walked away, effortless in her social grace. Juliet had to fake it.

She should’ve become a doctor, like Saanvi and her husband. Doctors didn’t get upstaged by younglings, did they? They just got better and more esteemed.

Speaking of upstart younglings, here came Arwen. She drifted gracefully over to Juliet, almost floating as heads turned. “Thank you for inviting me, Juliet. What a lovely home you have!” The European air-kiss on each cheek.

“So glad you could make it. Hello, hello!” God.

Arwen wore a long white dress and simple sandals, looking like a Greek goddess with a badass haircut. Sandals, a toe ring, and a brown leather bracelet set with a single turquoise stone. One gold ring on her index finger, just above the second knuckle. She held a glass of rosé that seemed to complement her skin tone and outfit, her graceful fingers cupping the stemless glass.

Juliet felt immediately outclassed and overdressed. The formfitting black cocktail dress was meant to show that yes, she ran six miles on the treadmill every single day. No stockings, black kitten heels that had cost a fortune but suddenly felt a bit old-school.

“Oliver!” she called. “You remember Arwen!” She waved at her husband, who finally left the hair-tossing hand-layer and ambled over, drink in hand.

“Hello, Arwen. So nice to see you again. Did you bring a friend?”

“I did. Cecille, come meet our wonderful hosts.” Arwen waved to a very tall woman with a beautiful Afro. “Cecille, this is my colleague, Juliet Frost, and her husband, Oliver.”

Colleague? She was Arwen’s boss.

“So nice to meet you,” Cecille said. “What a gorgeous view. Did you guys build this house, Mrs. Frost?”

Mrs. Frost. Gah. “Call me Juliet. And yes, we did.” She described the tear-down in quick terms, glancing at Arwen’s face as she did so. Unimpressed. Bored, even.

“My wife is a genius,” Oliver said, putting his arm around Juliet. “Every detail was her idea.” He kissed her temple. “I’m so lucky to be married to an architect. I’d be living in a shoebox if not for her. No taste whatsoever. This is all her.”

Juliet smiled gratefully.

“Oh, are you an architect, too?” Cecille asked. “I thought you were . . . in administration?”