They came to destroy me in court — until the judge read my envelope aloud… | HO
“You’re a wonderful hostess,” Lysander would say, watching me set the table for Sunday dinner with his parents. “Mother will be impressed.”
Octavia St. James was never impressed on principle. It contradicted her philosophy of life.
She arrived in a Bentley, scanned my table like a crime scene, and found evidence of my inadequacy every time.
“The forks are too far from the plates, Aziza. Etiquette is foundational.”
“The napkins aren’t folded that way in respectable homes.”
“Flowers on the table,” she’d sigh, as if the arrangement offended her lineage. “Hydrangeas. At dinner.”
Perl St. James, founder of St. James Development, communicated differently.
By pretending I wasn’t there.
In eight years he spoke to me directly three times. Each time, a variation of “pass the salt.” I existed to him at the level of furniture: necessary, unworthy of attention.
One Sunday Octavia announced, “We met a charming young woman.”
My stomach tightened; I’d learned to recognize traps by tone alone.
“Kalista Royale,” Octavia said, savoring the name, “daughter of Magnus Royale of Royale Holdings. A talented interior designer. She could refresh your guest rooms.” She looked at me with a smile that carried venom inside velvet. “They look… provincial.”
I forced a smile. I’d decorated those rooms myself, pouring time and careful love into every detail, like proof I belonged.
“Royale,” Perl repeated, suddenly alert.
The room froze, because Perl didn’t perk up for anything unless it involved money.
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Connections never hurt. What do you say, son?”
Lysander looked at me with that special smile that meant my answer was decorative. “Of course.”
I swallowed my pride. “It will be… interesting to see a professional’s work.”
Kalista arrived a week later and from the first second, it was clear.
