No mom will ever like me—and I'm okay with that.
From the second I stepped into the Simmons mansion, I felt it. I wasn't welcome. His mother, in all her perfectly-coiffed, passive-aggressive glory, made it clear: this was her domain, and I was an intruder.
Every wall in the living room—and the three others I counted—was plastered with photos of her. Not of the family. Not of her children. Just her. It was less decor and more shrine. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was trying to fuse her soul to the foundation.
Aaron's voice broke my silent judgment. "So… what do you think?" He sounded way too hopeful.
I turned in a slow circle, forcing a polite smile. "Oh, it's… very beautiful. And stuff."
Before he could respond, a tall, slim woman with the same nose as Aaron approached. Her posture screamed money, power, and decades of judgment.
"'Stuff'?" she repeated, arching a brow.
"Is the 'stuff' you're referring to not to your liking?" Her tone was sugar-laced poison. I braced myself.
She kissed Aaron on both cheeks like she was in a European soap opera, then turned to look at me, her gaze as warm as a glacier.
"I'm Mrs. Simmons," she said coolly. "You won't need to know my first name. It'll never be relevant to you."
I stared right back. "No, it's not really to my liking, unfortunately. I'd actually suggest letting the wallpaper breathe a bit—bring out the contrast in the trim and flooring."
Her lip twitched.
"I minored in interior design," I added, voice flat with just enough sarcasm to make her foot tap in irritation.
Without responding, she turned away. "Darling," she called over her shoulder to Aaron, "dinner will be served soon. I had your favorite prepared for dessert."
Aaron kissed her cheek. "She's just protective. We were her whole world growing up."
"No, I get it," I muttered. "I totally wasn't going to assume she hated me the moment she laid eyes on me."
"Laina…" He dropped his voice. "We'll be here three hours, tops. And yes, she sees you as… beneath what she's used to."
That landed hard. We had never talked about class before. Never even hinted at it.
I nodded stiffly, my stomach twisting. I already knew this dinner would change everything.
We stepped into the dining room—a cathedral of chandeliers, polished mahogany, and enough crystal to fund a startup.
Mrs. Simmons sat at one end of the table like a royal matriarch. Beside her were five other people, all in varying shades of wealth and judgment.
A round, jolly-looking man stood and walked toward us, beaming. Rosy cheeks, white beard, deep laugh lines—he looked like Santa's younger, richer brother.
"Aaron, she's beautiful!" he declared.
"I'm Xavier Simmons," he said, shaking my hand warmly. "Call me Xavier."
"Alaina Jackson. Thank you for having me," I replied, kissing the back of his hand without thinking.
"Well, aren't you charming. Aaron's told us all about you."
He led me to a seat beside him. Aaron, of course, sat on the other end—next to Helen the Ice Queen.
To my left sat a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a watch that probably cost more than my apartment.
"I'm Alaina," I offered.
He glanced over and nodded politely. "Michael. Aaron's oldest brother. The other two are over there—John's the bearded one, and Allen's the one who won't stop checking out your cleavage."
Allen raised a glass. "Aaron, you lucky bastard. You're sleeping with your assistant? You're literally living the dream."
The table went silent.
Mrs. Simmons cleared her throat and looked at me like I was a smear on the tablecloth. "It's highly unprofessional for a woman to seduce her employer."
Before I could clap back, Xavier chuckled. "Now, now, Helen. I was your golf instructor long before I was your husband." He rang a tiny bell, and five waiters appeared like magic, carrying plates of food.
Dinner passed in a blur of small talk and forced smiles. Xavier insisted I be served first and regaled me with stories of the Simmons family history, as if I was auditioning for a role in it.
After dinner, I slipped away, wandering through the mansion's endless halls. I stopped in front of an old photo—Aaron and his family at a lake house, all matching smiles and coordinated outfits. They looked like a magazine ad for generational wealth.
"Dear," came a voice from behind me—soft, sharp, and unmistakably Helen.
I didn't turn.
"I know your hair isn't naturally brown," she said, stepping beside me. "So stop pretending to be someone you're not."
She took a sip of champagne, her eyes still on the photo. "And if it's not already clear, I don't like you. I probably never will. You don't belong here. You never will. I'm only telling you this now to spare you the inevitable discomfort."
She smiled at the photo like we were having tea, not a showdown.
I turned my head just enough to meet her gaze. "You know, every queen loses her throne eventually. History has a habit of reminding people like you."
She blinked.
"And if it's not already obvious, Helen—Aaron is mine. I'm not going anywhere unless I decide to. So we don't need to keep pretending. I've met a hundred women just like you—who sleep well thinking they're better than everyone, when really, they're just lonely and terrified of being replaced."
I started to walk away.
"Watch yourself, Alaina," she said behind me. "I can make your life very difficult."
I didn't look back. "Only if you think I'll let you."
Her champagne glass clinked softly as she toasted her own reflection, pretending nothing had happened at all.