CHAPTER 3
Chapter Title: Vintage Drama
Kimberly
Dinner at the Williamson estate was like stepping into a living oil painting—stiff, luxurious, and pretending not to rot beneath the surface. The long mahogany table stretched beneath a dripping chandelier, glowing in the soft golden haze of candlelight. Everything from the china to the linen napkins looked like it had been hand-selected by a Versailles curator with a God complex.
I sat two seats down from Divine, close enough to smell her perfume—something floral and generationally expensive, like crushed gardenias and judgment.
Divine sat like a queen, dressed in her Chanel and pearls, with a brooch that probably had its own insurance policy, her dark brown hair lacquered into a sculptural masterpiece. She didn’t look like she’d eaten in days. But she cut into her steak like a woman ready for war.
Speaking of steak.
Dinner was as exquisite as expected. A filet mignon the size of my palm sat on my plate, cooked to a flawless medium-rare, glistening with jus that shimmered under the low candlelight. The smell was divine—no pun intended—and my stomach growled with anticipation. Alongside it, whipped truffle potatoes and charred broccolini were arranged like some modern art sculpture I wasn’t supposed to disturb. But I dug in anyway, taking a bite of the steak, letting the flavor coat my tongue.
It was perfect. Rich, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth.
I took a sip of wine—Château Margaux, 2012, if Divine’s little speech had been accurate—and let it roll across my tongue. Smooth, sure. Bold. Expensive. But not life-changing.
I drained the glass faster than was polite.
Not out of nerves. Out of celebration.
Because I had signed the prenup.
Every last absurd clause.
Though I seethed with resentment, I let Divine believe she held the leash, while I burned with the ferocity of a rabid dog.
According to Divine and her team of pit viper attorneys, I would only see a cent of the Williamson fortune if I gave up my dreams, produced an heir, and stayed in the marriage long enough to earn my keep. And God forbid I bore daughters. Girls, it seemed, were sentimental accessories to the Williamsons—good for brunch photos and charity events, but not worth paying for.
Only boys would earn me anything substantial: a half a million if the child had a Y chromosome and lived past ten. Daughters? I’d be compensated if they married well. Their worth, apparently, was measured by whose name they took next.
The longer I thought about it, the more absurd it became.
I signaled the server for a refill. He approached swiftly, wine bottle in his white-gloved hands, and poured.
“Mmm,” I murmured, swirling it idly before taking another slow sip. “This is nice.”
I glanced toward Hank, who was mid-conversation about municipal bonds with his uncle. He hadn’t looked at me once since we sat down. And of course, he hadn’t signed his end of the prenup yet. He was "still reviewing it."
Right.
I smiled. Let him review. Let them all think I’d been boxed in. What none of them realized—not Divine, not Hank, not any of the carefully groomed cousins and socialites watching me with thinly veiled curiosity—was that I never signed anything I couldn’t undo.
There are always loopholes. Always leverage. You just have to be patient, strategic... or creative.
“This wine is fine,” I said casually, letting my gaze wander across the crystal chandeliers and expensive wallpaper. “But honestly? It’s not that different from the ten-dollar Malbec I get at the liquor store near my bakery.”
The room quieted like someone had pulled the power cord.
One of the servers actually paused in place, wine bottle still tipped mid-pour. Hank's brow twitched. Divine’s knife hovered in the air, frozen above her half-eaten filet.
Her lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile—it was the baring of teeth. Controlled fury dressed in pearls and Chanel. “I beg your pardon?” she asked cooly, her tone sugar-laced venom.
I gave her my sweetest smile and took another sip. “I’m just saying. I know it’s expensive and all, but once it hits your tongue, it’s kind of… average. You know? I think I even prefer the bottle with the cartoon dog on the label—surprisingly bold finish.”
Divine didn’t blink.
A beat passed. Two.
And then Divine set her knife down with a deliberate clink. Her voice didn’t rise. Not yet. But her words came out sharp enough to flay skin.
“Perhaps, Kimberly, your palate is more accustomed to convenience store fare than curated sophistication.”
Ouch. That one hit. Low and aimed.
I raised my glass in a mock-toast, smiling brightly. “Or maybe I just don’t think wine should cost as much as a semester at NYU.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught Hank's glance at the mention of NYU, but my gaze stayed locked on Divine.
Divine’s fingers curled slightly on her linen napkin. Her posture straightened, chin lifted. She turned to one of the staff with the dignity of a general issuing an order in wartime.
“Take her glass,” she ordered, voice still syrupy. “It appears the wine is wasted on her.”
The server hesitated. Just enough to let everyone watching know that the lines had been drawn.
I raised my glass before he could take it.
“Actually,” I said cheerfully, “I’ll finish it.”
And I did. Drained the second glass slowly, keeping my eyes locked on Divine’s. The wine coated my throat like velvet, warm and rich, but all I tasted was the thrill of rebellion. It wasn’t about wine anymore. It never was.
“Thank you,” I said brightly, setting the empty glass down just as the server approached. “Delicious.”
Hank was staring at his plate like it might offer him an escape route. Uncle Moneybags looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Even the staff looked uncomfortable, their eyes flicking between Divine and me like a tennis match played with live grenades.
Divine’s expression remained cold. Still. Regal. But I saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth. The fury barely held in check.
“I told you, Hank,” she said, not looking at me now but at him, “you should have courted someone with refinement. Someone who understands restraint. Not someone who confuses sarcasm for substance.”
That one stung. But only a little.
“Oh, Divine. Don’t worry. Once I produce a boy, I’ll practically be royalty in this house. Right?”
Another silence dropped like a guillotine.
Divine stood now. So did the tension.
“Security,” she snapped. “Escort Ms. Hastings to the east parlor. I need a word.”
Hank started to rise but stopped himself. Of course he did.
I stood slowly, smoothing my trousers, still smiling.
As the two suited men approached, I whispered just loud enough for Divine to hear:
“Thank you for dinner. The wine may be overpriced, but the drama? Absolutely vintage.”
And with that, I let them lead me from the table—heels tapping against marble, heart racing not from fear, but from the thrill of having cracked her porcelain mask in front of her own empire.
Let the games begin, indeed.