But tonight, there was a new player on the stage.
Sitting next to Chloe was Travis, her new boyfriend of three months. He was thirty, impeccably dressed in a dark, custom-tailored suit. He was wealthy—the founder of a rapidly expanding tech firm in the city. Chloe had paraded him into the house like a trophy, desperate to secure a ring and access to his bank accounts.
However, throughout the dinner, Travis hadn’t acted like a nervous suitor trying to impress his future in-laws. He was polite, yes, but his eyes were entirely different. They didn’t hold warmth. They held a sharp, cold, calculated intensity. He seemed to be observing the room rather than participating in it. And strangely, his gaze kept drifting past Chloe’s plunging neckline and landing directly on me.
Suddenly, Travis set his silver fork down on the china plate with a soft clink. The low murmur of conversation stopped. He looked directly down the length of the table at me.
“So, Maya,” Travis said, his voice smooth but carrying an undeniable weight. “Chloe mentioned you work for the county. What exactly do you do?”
The room went instantly, dangerously still. I felt the familiar, icy prickle of dread crawl up the back of my neck.
I cleared my throat, keeping my eyes fixed on my water glass. “I’m a social worker,” I said quietly. “I work mostly with at-risk youth in the foster system and juvenile diversion programs.”
Instantly, my mother let out a sharp, derisive scoff. Her voice cut through the air like a shard of glass.
“Oh, Travis, please don’t encourage her,” my mother sighed, waving her manicured hand dismissively. “Don’t waste his time with your depressing, boring stories, Maya. He’s just being polite. He runs a multi-million dollar tech company; he doesn’t want to hear about poor people.”
Chloe giggled, leaning into Travis’s shoulder. “Yeah, Maya just likes to play martyr. She basically babysits juvenile delinquents for minimum wage.”
