The Summer Mixer hummed around them like a living thing-soft jazz drifting from the quartet, crystal glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling under strings of warm lights. The rooftop felt magical, the city skyline glittering beyond, but Andrea’s stomach was a tight knot.
She stood beside Henry, smiling politely at the couple he was speaking with, nodding at their chatter about investments and travel. But her mind was spinning. Every few seconds her eyes flicked toward his mother across the room. The woman’s gaze kept landing on her-cool, assessing, lips pressed into a thin line that never quite became a real smile.
She already hates me.
Andrea’s fingers tightened around her clutch. The emerald dress suddenly felt too bright, too noticeable. She leaned toward Henry, her voice barel
