Chapter 3 - The Sunday Dinner
Graham returned from Boston on a Thursday evening, walking through the front door with his expensive leather weekender bag, smelling of sandalwood and the faintest, sickeningly familiar trace of Lydia’s floral perfume.
"Hey, beautiful," Graham said, dropping his bag in the foyer and wrapping his arms around Natalie’s waist. He kissed her forehead, his touch sending a violent, electric shock of revulsion down her spine. She forced herself to lean into him, resting her hands on his chest.
"How was the supplier conference?" Natalie asked, her voice perfectly modulated, projecting the exact pitch of wifely interest he expected.
"Exhausting," Graham sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "The New England timber suppliers are raising their prices again. I had to negotiate until midnight. I’m just glad to be home with my girls."
He bent down to pick up Iris, swinging her into the air as she giggled, the picture-perfect image of a devoted father. Natalie watched him from the kitchen island, feeling a cold, clinical detachment settle over her mind. He was a masterclass in deception. He didn't just lie; he inhabited the lie. He built a comfortable house out of it and invited her to live inside.
Three days later, on Sunday afternoon, Lydia came over for dinner.
It was a family tradition. Every other Sunday, Lydia would arrive with an expensive bottle of wine she couldn't afford on her gallery assistant salary, and they would eat a roast Natalie had spent hours preparing.
When the doorbell rang, Natalie answered it. Lydia stood on the porch, wearing the ivory coat.
"Nat!" Lydia beamed, stepping inside and wrapping her arms around her older sister. "I missed you! It feels like I haven't seen you in weeks."
"It has been a while," Natalie said, stepping back to take Lydia’s coat. Her fingers brushed the soft wool. She remembered the way it had draped over the back of the hotel chair. "You look radiant, Lyd. Have you met someone?"
Lydia’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression of guilt that Natalie would have missed a week ago. "No, no one special. Just focusing on myself lately."
"Well, whatever you're doing, it's working," Graham called out from the dining room, walking in with a corkscrew. He didn't look at Lydia too long. He was careful. He kept the interaction perfectly platonic, perfectly brotherly.
The dinner was a masterclass in psychological torture. Natalie sat at the head of the table, carving the roast, pouring the wine, and listening to the two people she loved most in the world exchange casual, meaningless banter while secretly dismantling her life.
She watched the way Lydia casually touched the base of her wine glass. She watched the way Graham subtly shifted his posture to face Lydia when she spoke. She cataloged every shared glance, every inside joke masquerading as casual conversation.
"How are things at Rowan House, Graham?" Lydia asked, taking a delicate bite of asparagus. "Natalie mentioned you guys were looking at an expansion."
"It's moving along," Graham said smoothly, taking a sip of his Cabernet. "There’s a lot of administrative red tape. I’m actually presenting a restructuring plan to the board on Friday. Trying to streamline our asset management. Take some of the operational stress off Natalie."
He smiled at his wife. A warm, protective, devastatingly fake smile.
"He works too hard," Natalie said, matching his smile with terrifying precision. "I honestly don't know what I would do without him."
Lydia laughed, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin. "You guys are disgusting. The perfect couple. It makes the rest of us look bad."
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Beneath the heavy oak table, Natalie’s hand clenched into a fist so tight her fingernails dug deep half-moons into her palm, drawing a single drop of blood. She smiled through the pain. She chewed her food. She swallowed the poison, knowing that Friday was coming.
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