Page 36 of Iridescent
There’s something about her that makes looking away impossible. The ease with which she occupies the space. The soft laugh that pulls a smile from my husband’s lips. It’s as if she knows exactly where his attention belongs—and worse, as if she’s testing whether he remembers who used to have it.
Goosebumps dimple my skin. The room suddenly feels colder, the air skimming over my bare arms. I rub my hands along them, trying to chase the chill away.
Isabel leans close to Guinevere, showing her something on her phone, and Guinevere’s face lights up. Their heads incline together, nearly touching, the intimacy of it tightening like a fist around my lungs.
They look like mother and daughter.
A few seats down, Élise catches my eye. She offers me a small, sympathetic smile.
I force my lips to curve in return.
Even her kindness feels like pity.
It burns, because pity means there’s something to be sorry for.
The first course arrives: delicate bowls of langoustine bisque, fragrant with cream and cognac—a Navarro family staple. The chef himself appears briefly to present the dish, and a flutter of applause moves around the table as servers ladle out steaming portions.
One of the footmen sets a bowl in front of me.
The rich scent of shellfish hits instantly. My stomach twists. My throat prickles.
I’m allergic.
Xavier has always made certain nothing like this ever touches my plate. Everyone here knows it.
And yet—
Before I can say a word, his hand reaches across the table and slides the bowl closer to me.
“You’ll love this, Yara,” he says, not even glancing up, his voice the absent, polite tone he uses with strangers.
He’s already turned back to Isabel, asking her something about Madrid as if on autopilot.
I stare down at the golden-orange soup, its surface glistening with a drizzle of truffle oil in the candlelight. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the one thing on this table that could send me to the hospital.
To my death.
He forgot.
The man who once scoured entire menus for hidden shrimp paste, who warned waiters in five different languages about my allergy, has just pushed a bowl of it in front of me andforgotten.
“Actually,” I muster a plastic smile, “I think I’ll pass on this one.”
Guinevere manicured hand stills halfway to her mouth. She lowers herspoon with deliberate care and looks at me across the rim of her bowl.
“Is something wrong, ma chère? It would be a shame to insult the chef.”
Her tone is perfectly pleasant. The disapproval beneath it isn’t.
Élise jumps in. “Maman, Yara’s allergic to shellfish.”
“Ah.” Guinevere breathes out the syllable like a mild annoyance. She gives a small, dismissive wave of her hand and turns back to Isabel. “Bien sûr.”
No apology. No concern. Justof course, like I’ve inconvenienced everyone by existing with an allergy.
Heat floods my cheeks. I drop my gaze to the table, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue.
Act fine. Look radiant. Bleed quietly.
