Meeting the family

Isabelle -

The party continued to swirl around me, but I was barely aware of it. The alcohol was starting to hum through my veins, numbing the sharp edges of everything—the embarrassment, the anger, the sheer frustration of seeing Logan Sinclair again. I needed to get away from him, from all of it. The clinking of glasses, the murmured conversations, the sparkling chandeliers above—it all felt like a blur as I stood at the bar, staring into the amber liquid in my glass.

The peace didn't last for long, as my mother marched over to me with a look that screamed “Time to meet the family!”.

She latched onto my arm like she was afraid I might make a break for it at any second.

“Come on, darling, let’s introduce you to everyone!” she said.

Before I could even protest, she was dragging me across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of fancy-dressed guests, most of whom I’d never seen before and would, hopefully, never have to see again. The faces blurred together: cousins I’d barely met, second cousins I didn’t even know existed, and several people who were probably just here for the open bar. I gave half-hearted nods and weak smiles, knowing full well I wouldn’t remember a single one of their names five minutes from now.

Finally, we reached the grand prise—Robert Sinclair, my new stepfather. He was standing at the centre of a small circle of admirers, holding a glass of whisky and looking like a businessman straight out of central casting. Slicked-back hair, tailored suit, and the kind of smile that said, I know exactly how much I’m worth, and I hope you do too.

“Robert, darling,” my mother cooed, her voice switching to that saccharine sweet tone she always used around wealthy men. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Isabelle.”

He turned to me with a polite smile, his eyes scanning me briefly like I was part of a business transaction. “Ah, Isabelle. It’s great to finally meet you,” he said, offering a handshake that was firm but clearly practiced.

“And what do you do, Isabelle?” he asked. In that way, rich people always ask when they want to know your value in the workforce.

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could even get a word out, my mother swooped in like an over-caffeinated PR agent.

“Oh, Isabelle studied at an Ivy League school,” she announced, her voice rising with pride. “Business major, of course! She’s simply brilliant, aren’t you, darling?”

I blinked, my mouth still half open from where I had been about to answer; of course my mother wouldn't even remember my college name.

“Ivy League?” Robert’s eyebrows lifted in approval, as though I were suddenly more interesting now that I had a fancy school attached to my name.

"Which one ?"

"Yale," I replied.

“That’s wonderful. I’m always looking for new talent, you know,” he said, swirling his whisky.

I gave a weak laugh, trying to come up with something intelligent to say in response. Instead, my brain offered up, “Yes, well... I’m very talented at, uh, keeping to myself…...”

Silence.

Oh God, why did I say that?

I felt my mother’s nails dig into my arm, her smile twitching ever so slightly as she leant in and hissed under her breath, “Isabelle, don't be rude.”

Robert chuckled, probably assuming I was trying to be funny.

"That's a wonderful talent to have, Isabelle. Knowing when to keep quiet is a skill not many possess." He winked, taking another sip of his drink.

I smiled, unsure whether to feel relieved or embarrassed. But before I could say anything else, my mother swooped back in, laying it on thick.

“Isn’t she just wonderful?” She gushed, her voice loud enough for everyone within a ten-foot radius to hear. “So smart, so independent. I’ve always said she’d be a great asset in any business.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Asset in any business? I had joined a firm as a junior business analyst, but my job was to fill data in Excel sheets all day.

But Robert seemed impressed, nodding along as if he’d just discovered his next protégée.

"Logan's been needing a new secretary for a while now, and you’re family. It’s ideal. Isabelle would be perfect," Robert declared, looking pleased with his “brilliant” idea.

I blinked in disbelief, trying to process what Robert had just said. My heart sank, plummeting straight into my stomach like a stone.