No one has ever looked at me this way before. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was love. But it can’t be.

Not from someone like her.

Not for someone like me.

“Shall we?” She doesn’t answer, just walks past me toward the front door. I can’t help but notice she’s standing a little taller now.

Opulent is the word that comes to mind as we walk around Elizabeth’s house. The floors are a spotless marble. All the fixtures are polished gold without a single fingerprint. There are massive portraits lining the walls, all the Wilde forebears glaring down in silent judgment. It is a beautiful mausoleum. A mansion, but not a home.

This place is something out of a magazine and so are all the people. They have a staged quality to them. Their flaws have been airbrushed into obscurity before publication. Their smiles are wide but their eyes are empty. They see Elizabeth as an ornament, there to be seen, but not held. Admired, but never loved.

These people are courteous enough, but it doesn’t escape my notice that I’m being judged. I’m used to not being good enough, I expect it. But I’m surprised they seem to be judging Elizabeth too. And not kindly. Nearly every person we talk to makes some snide underhanded comment about her.

“She is majoring in biology,” Richard tells a colleague as Elizabeth and I stand conspicuously behind him like some zoo exhibit. Elizabeth gives her father a genteel smile despite the fact he got her major wrong.

“She has done quite well, considering.” Richard talks about Elizabeth as if she’s not standing right behind him.

Considering? Considering what? That she’s got a world-class prick for a father?

I take half a step forward only to be met with Elizabeth’s small hand on my chest. I peer down at her, startled.

“Please, don’t,” she whispers so softly only I can hear. I swallow down my frustration and plaster on a fake smile that matches hers.

Who knew something called cocktail hour could be such a fucking nightmare? The worst part is standing by, watching Elizabeth smile through the insults. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

“Beth, darling,” Patricia, the woman introduced to me as the best friend of Elizabeth’s late mother, exclaims. “Richard tells me you have moved out?”

“Yes, I—” Elizabeth barely starts before Patricia cuts her off.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Patricia pats Elizabeth’s hand in a patronizing reprimand. Elizabeth’s eyes drop to the floor. My jaw clenches.

Patricia turns to me and adds in mock whisper, “She’s delicate.”

Fuck this chick.

“Excuse us, Patricia. Elizabeth promised me a tour of the house before dinner.” I grab Elizabeth’s hand and drag her away. We make ourselves scarce until dinner, wandering the empty rooms hand in hand without saying much.