Mark puffed out his chest, looking around the lobby as if he had built it himself. “Nice place you got here. Make sure my bags are in the Master Villa. And get my father a double whiskey, neat. Quickly.”
“Of course, sir,” Julian said, his jaw tightening slightly.
We settled in. Or rather, they settled in. I spent the first two days running errands. Beatrice wanted specific magazines. Frank wanted his pillows fluffed. Mark wanted me to take photos of him posing on the deck for his Instagram.
“Angle it up, Clara!” Mark shouted from the edge of the infinity pool. “You’re making me look short. God, can’t you do anything right?”
On the third night, we went to The Pearl, the resort’s underwater restaurant. It was the jewel of the property. The walls were thick glass, looking out into the coral reef. Sharks and manta rays glided past our table as we ate.
Beatrice was already drunk. She swirled her wine glass, staring at me with open disdain.
“So, Clara,” she drawled. “Mark tells me you’re still doing those little… drawings. What do you call them? Art?”
“I’m an illustrator, Beatrice,” I said quietly, cutting my sea bass.
“Right. Illustrator,” she laughed, looking at Frank. “That’s code for ‘unemployed,’ Dad. It’s embarrassing, really. Mark is a Senior VP, and his wife doodles for pennies.”
Frank grunted, tearing into a lobster tail with his hands. “Mark needs a woman with ambition. Someone who knows how to network. Clara is too… provincial.”
Provincial. The word hung in the air, sharp and ugly.
“This wine is corked,” Beatrice announced suddenly, slamming her glass down.
I tasted mine. It was a 1982 Petrus, one of the finest vintages in the world. It was perfect.
“It tastes fine, Beatrice,” I said.
“Oh, listen to the expert!” Beatrice shrieked, drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. “She drinks box wine at home, and now she’s lecturing me on Petrus! It’s corked, Clara! Fix it!”
She snapped her fingers at me.
“Go find the sommelier. Tell him to bring a real bottle. Or do they only serve moonshine in your village?”
The table erupted in laughter. Frank slapped the table. Mark chuckled, shaking his head.
I looked at my husband. “Mark? The wine is five thousand dollars a bottle. It’s not corked.”
Mark stopped laughing and glared at me. His eyes were cold, devoid of any affection. “Just go, Clara. You’re making a scene. You’re lucky we even brought you on your own prize trip. Stop being so sensitive and get my sister what she wants.”
I stood up slowly. My legs felt heavy. I walked toward the kitchen, feeling the eyes of the other diners on my back. They thought I was a scolded servant.
In the corridor, I met Julian. He looked furious.
“Madame,” he whispered. “Please. Allow me to remove them. Security can have them on a boat in ten minutes.”
“Not yet,” I said, my voice trembling with a rage I was struggling to suppress. “Not yet, Julian. I need to know how deep the rot goes.”
“As you wish,” he bowed. “But Madame… please protect yourself.”
I walked back to the table with a new bottle. I poured Beatrice a glass. She took a sip, smirked, and poured the rest of the glass onto the floor, splashing my sandals.
“Better,” she said. “Now clean that up.”
Chapter 3: The Underwater Breaking Point
The breaking point didn’t come at a dinner table. It came the next morning, under the bright, unforgiving sun.
We were at the main pool. It was a sprawling lagoon-style pool with a deep end that dropped to twelve feet. I was sitting on a lounger, reading a book, while Toby, my six-year-old son, played in the shallow end with his floaties.
Frank strode over to the edge of the pool. He was a large man, taking up space, radiating aggression. He looked at Toby.
“Boy!” Frank barked. “Take those floaties off. You look like a girl.”
Toby looked up, wide-eyed. “But Grandpa, I can’t swim in the deep water yet.”
“Nonsense,” Frank sneered. “You’re a Vance. Vance men are born swimming. Mark! Get over here.”
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