He was the rug now. Or worse...
Part 1: The Table as Altar
The dining room glowed with curated elegance—mahogany warmth, golden light blooming from a vintage chandelier, and the low symphony of conversation stirred with forks and glasses. Yet beneath the fine linen, beneath the antique table that had seated governors and moguls in lifetimes past, another kind of guest trembled.
He had arrived early, as instructed. Crawling in silence, collar fastened, breath shallow. The host—his ex-wife—had greeted him only with a nod, as if acknowledging the arrival of a crate of wine. Her stilettos tapped past him with no more regard than a heel might show a rug.
He was the rug now. Or worse. Rugs are seen. Rugs are chosen. Rugs have pattern and purpose.
The guests took their seats slowly, all six of them. Two women he didn't recognize—elegant and sharp as sabers—and two men who exhaled money and wore it like skin. But it was her new partner who commanded the air. Tall, rudely handsome, his voice ran smooth and arrogant, like whiskey poured too fast. The ex-husband had once called him names—now he knelt, nameless, only inches from his polished wingtips.
“Shall we begin?” she asked. It was not a question.
They raised glasses. He lowered his head.
The first shoe touched his lips like a sentence.
The ex-husband had once called him names—now he knelt, nameless, only inches from his polished wingtips.