THEA
I hate these galas.
The lights. The shallow chatter. The endless string of congratulations for things that were already expected of me.
I adjust the strap of my dress as I walk through the grand hall, smile pinned tight on my face like the old brooch that doesn’t go with the outfit but has to be worn anyway. My heels echo against the marble, perfectly timed with the fake laughter that fills the space.
Saturday nights used to mean something else.
Finn in pajamas, begging for one more bedtime story. Me, tucked into the couch with a glass of wine and a heating pad because my back was killing me from work… but at least I was home. At least I was… us.
And now?
Now I stand under a chandelier that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, sipping champagne.
I would rather be on my
