Chap­ter 27 begins with an every­day ques­tion that car­ries more weight than it seems: which dress to wear. I hold up three options—an under­stat­ed cream dress, a sleek black one, and a stand­out plum piece from Bea’s South­ern Manors col­lec­tion. That last dress means some­thing. It rep­re­sents Bea’s lega­cy, the brand, the woman I’m still try­ing to under­stand. But when Eddie glances at my choic­es and picks the cream one with­out hes­i­ta­tion, I nod and com­ply, even though a small part of me sinks. It’s beau­ti­ful, yes, but safe—forgettable. Lat­er, stand­ing beside women whose dia­monds sparkle brighter than the chan­de­liers, I’ll real­ize just how right I was.

The Coun­try Club of Birm­ing­ham is more than grand—it’s intim­i­dat­ing. Walk­ing through the entry­way, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world built on mon­ey, man­ners, and mir­rors. Every­one is dressed in a kind of wealth that doesn’t need expla­na­tion. I trail behind Eddie, hold­ing my clutch tight­ly, try­ing to match the effort­less smiles I see all around me. The air buzzes with a mix of gin, gos­sip, and judg­ment. I try to remind myself that I belong here now. But I don’t feel it. Not even close.

As Eddie dis­ap­pears to fetch drinks, I’m left on my own, watch­ing pol­ished strangers flit between con­ver­sa­tions. That’s when Emi­ly spots me. Her wel­come is bright, practiced—genuine in tone but not in sub­stance. She loops her arm through mine and intro­duces me to the group, women who smell of gar­de­nias and look like they’ve nev­er known a bad day. I nod, smile, answer ques­tions about the house, the dog, our upcom­ing wed­ding. Out­ward­ly, I pass. But inside, I feel like a bor­rowed accessory—fitting the theme, but not part of the sto­ry.

The con­ver­sa­tion turns, as it always does, to gos­sip. Car­o­line men­tions Tripp Ingra­ham, her voice low but loaded. She jokes about scan­dal, but there’s an edge in her tone. Tripp’s name doesn’t feel distant—it lands in my chest like a warn­ing. I try to stay still, to sip slow­ly. The women laugh, shift­ing between con­cern and curios­i­ty, but none of them know what I know. Or sus­pect what I sus­pect. That beneath this glit­ter­ing crowd, there are secrets no one wants aired.

Emi­ly changes the sub­ject to lighter things—vacations, skin­care, dia­monds the size of mar­bles. Yet even with her attempt to piv­ot, I can’t shake the feel­ing that dan­ger is as much a part of this group as the cham­pagne flutes they’re hold­ing. Some­one men­tions how Eddie’s been drink­ing more late­ly. It’s said casu­al­ly, as if dis­cussing the weath­er. But my stom­ach knots. I make a joke, brush­ing it off, pre­tend­ing it’s just stress or the excite­ment of the wed­ding. They nod, dis­tract­ed by a pass­ing wait­er with more wine.

Then, the pho­tog­ra­ph­er cir­cles back. Flash after flash cap­tures these women laugh­ing at jokes they don’t mean, sip­ping from glass­es they rarely fin­ish. I smile for the cam­era, feel­ing my face tight­en into some­thing prac­ticed. This is the part of the night that mat­ters to them—the image. The evi­dence. Not the awk­ward silences or the half-heard con­fes­sions. I real­ize the pho­tos won’t show how Emily’s grip tight­ened when Tripp’s name came up. Or how Caroline’s expres­sion soured just slight­ly before her joke.

At one point, some­one asks about my back­ground, and I offer just enough to be polite. Not enough to be real. When talk of Tripp returns, and some­one asks if we know him well, I find my exit through faith. “The Lord sees what’s done in dark­ness,” I say, smil­ing. It draws a few raised brows and a cou­ple of forced chuck­les, but it works. The con­ver­sa­tion shifts, just as I’d hoped.

As the evening ends, I walk out feel­ing like I’ve passed a test. I stood still under scruti­ny and didn’t flinch. But I also know this—whatever world I’ve entered, it’s not built to for­give. It’s built to for­get. And if I’m not care­ful, I might be next.