Chapter 3 - The Gathering at the Grand Imperial
The Grand Imperial Restaurant was a monument to ostentatious wealth and stifling social pressure. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting a glittering, blinding light over dozens of round tables draped in heavy red silk. The air smelled of expensive jasmine tea, roasted duck, and the heavy, suffocating perfume of wealthy matriarchs who lived to judge one another.
Our table was front and center, positioned strategically so Elena could command the room like a queen addressing her court.
Lily sat in a high chair next to me, wearing the soft cotton dress I had chosen. It was a cheerful yellow with small white daisies—practical, comfortable, and utterly adorable. She was happily smearing a piece of steamed bun across her tray, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from her grandmother.
Elena sat across from us, dressed in a stiff, emerald-green silk qipao that looked like body armor. Her eyes scanned Lily’s dress with undisguised disdain, her lips tightening into a thin, disapproving line.
"Really, Clara?" Elena said, her voice cutting sharply through the chatter of our extended relatives. She didn't bother lowering her tone; she wanted the table next to us to hear. "A cotton rag for her second birthday? I specifically sent Arthur a link to a French lace dress. Do you want people to think my granddaughter is being raised by paupers?"
Arthur, sitting to my left, cleared his throat nervously. He reached for a glass of water, avoiding my eyes. "Mom, it’s fine. Lily looks cute."
"Cute is not the word, Arthur," Elena snapped, waving a manicured hand dismissively. "Presentation matters in this family. Everything she wears reflects on us."
I kept my voice dangerously calm, slicing a piece of fruit for Lily. "Lily is two years old, Elena. She cares about comfort, not French lace. If you wanted a fashion show, you should have hired models."
The table went dead silent. Several relatives stopped chewing, their chopsticks hovering in mid-air. In Elena’s world, no one talked back to her—least of all me, the working-class girl her son had married against her wishes.
Elena’s face flushed a mottled, angry crimson. Her eyes narrowed into venomous slits.
Before anyone could defuse the moment, a photographer hired by Elena walked up to the table, camera raised, flashing a bright light right into Lily’s eyes. Startled by the sudden flash and the oppressive noise of the banquet hall, Lily blinked rapidly and let out a small, whimpering cry, burying her face in my shoulder.
May you like
Elena slammed her teacup down onto the porcelain saucer, the sharp clack making several people jump.
"See that?" Elena snarled, standing up halfway from her chair, pointing a trembling, jeweled finger at my daughter. "Look at her! You useless piece of trash, this girl has defective genetics! Whining, weak, completely backward—just like her mother’s side of the family! She can't even speak properly at two years old; she’s practically brain-dead!"
