The gallery was a sanctuary of soft light and polished surfaces, its walls adorned with paintings that whispered of wealth and taste.
The air carried the faint scent of jasmine from a vase of fresh blooms on the mahogany table, mingling with the buttery aroma of shortbread cookies arranged on a silver tray.
Maya Odette Brennan sat poised at the edge of a velvet-upholstered chair.
Her posture was impeccable, her spine straight as a dancer's, her hands folded delicately in her lap.
The silk shawl draped over her shoulders, a deep emerald green that complemented her chestnut hair, shifted slightly as she adjusted her position, the fabric catching the light in a way that made it shimmer like water.
Around her, the other women chatted with the ease of long acquaintance, their voices a low hum punctuated by the occasional clink of teacups against saucers.
They were older than Maya, most in their late thirties or early forties, their faces etched with the subtle lines of experience and their laughter carrying the weight of shared histories.
Their husbands, like Maya's own Cilian, were men of influence, bound together by the invisible threads of business and ambition that had drawn their wives into this exclusive circle.
The women's clothing was a parade of understated luxury—tailored dresses, pearl earrings, and handbags that cost more than most people's monthly rent.
Yet, despite their shared world, Maya was the youngest by nearly a decade, a fact that hung over her like a chandelier, beautiful but heavy, impossible to ignore.
The gallery belonged to Beatrice, a statuesque woman in her mid-forties with silver-streaked hair pulled into a chignon and a penchant for hosting these gatherings.
It was a space that felt both intimate and grand, with high ceilings and tall windows that let in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The paintings on the walls were modern, abstract swirls of color that Maya found both intriguing and impenetrable, much like the women around her.
She had been invited to these teas for the past two years, almost ever since she Cilian but she had never felt at home here.
The invitation was a courtesy, a nod to her husband's status and her former identity but it came with an unspoken expectation: to blend in, to contribute, to belong.
Maya, however, had never mastered the art of belonging.
The conversation had turned, as it often did, to a pressing issue. Today, it was the upcoming charity gala, a glittering event that served as both a fundraiser and a stage for the city's elite to display their benevolence and their wardrobes.
Beatrice, presiding over the group with the authority of a queen, leaned forward, her teacup cradled in her hands. "The question, ladies," she said, her voice crisp and commanding, "is how we ensure this year's gala outshines last year's. The expectations are higher, and we cannot afford to be seen as anything less than exceptional."
The others nodded, murmuring their agreement. Evelyn, a sharp-eyed woman with a penchant for oversized hats, suggested a new caterer known for molecular gastronomy.
Clara proposed a live auction with exclusive items donated by their husbands' companies.
The ideas flowed freely, each woman eager to leave her mark on the event.
Maya listened, her expression attentive but neutral, her fingers tracing the edge of her shawl. She had learned early on that silence was her safest contribution. When she did speak, her words were often met with polite smiles and quick changes of subject, as if her youth disqualified her from having anything meaningful to say.
She glanced around the room, taking in the details that set her apart.
The other women wore their confidence like a second skin, their gestures assured, their laughter genuine.
Maya, for all her elegance, felt like an imposter.
Her beauty was undeniable—her high cheekbones, her almond-shaped eyes, her graceful neck—but it was a beauty that felt like a mask, something she wore to meet the expectations of this world rather than to express herself.
At twenty-six, she was still navigating the complexities of being Cilian's wife, a role that demanded poise and perfection but offered little room for anything else.
The discussion about the gala continued, the women debating themes and guest lists with the precision of military strategists.
Maya's thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Cilian.
'He would be home soon' she thought.
Their marriage was a partnership of mutual respect, but it was also a contract, one that required her to play a part she wasn't sure she understood.
Cilian was older, forty-two, with a quiet intensity that had drawn her to and pushed her away from him four years ago.
He was a man who thrived in boardrooms and negotiations, his world one of numbers and deals.
Maya's world, by contrast, was softer, less defined—bleak.
"Maya, dear," Beatrice's voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the room. "You've been awfully quiet. What do you think about the idea of a masquerade theme? It could add an air of mystery, don't you think?"
Maya blinked, her lips curving into a polite smile. "It's a lovely idea," she said, her voice soft but clear. "A masquerade could be elegant, and it would give everyone a chance to… express themselves." She hesitated, unsure if her words sounded as hollow to the others as they did to her. The women nodded, their smiles encouraging but fleeting, and the conversation moved on without her.
The meeting drew to a close, and the women rose from their seats, their movements graceful and synchronized, like a flock of birds taking flight.
They exchanged pleasantries, their voices warm with the familiarity of long friendships. Maya stood as well, smoothing her dress and adjusting her shawl once more. She moved through the group, offering smiles and murmured compliments about the cookies, the gallery, the weather—anything to fill the space between herself and the others.
She didn't linger, though.
Approaching Beatrice, who stood near the doorway bidding farewell to her guests, Maya offered her hand. "Thank you for hosting, Beatrice," she said, her tone warm but formal. "It was a lovely afternoon."
Beatrice's smile was gracious, her eyes appraising. "You're always welcome, Maya. You bring such a… youthful energy to our little group." .
Maya nodded, her smile unwavering, and excused herself. "I should get home. Cilian will be back soon, and I need to prepare."
"Of course," Beatrice said, her tone indulgent. "Give Cilian our best."
Maya stepped out into the fading light, the cool air a relief after the warmth of the gallery. Her car, a sleek black sedan that Cilian had insisted on, waited at the curb, its driver holding the door open for her.
She slid into the back seat, her shawl pooling around her like a protective cocoon, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The city blurred past the window—tall buildings, flashing lights, the pulse of a world that moved too fast for her to keep up.
She didn't fit in with the women in the gallery, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. But the alternative—carving out a space of her own, defining who she was beyond Cilian's wife—was a prospect that felt horrific and terrifying.
As the car pulled up to their house, a elegant modern building in a neighborhood of manicured lawns and discreet wealth, Maya's thoughts turned to the evening ahead.
She would prepare dinner, set the table with the precision Cilian appreciated, and listen as he recounted his day.
It was a routine she knew well, one that anchored her even as it confined her.