Page 168 of False God

But at least around my family, I know what my role is. My connection to them is clear. Everyone here is wondering what my relationship to Charlie is … and I don’t know the answer any more than they do.

He introduces me to everyone who approaches him. Some people seem to recognize my last name. Many don’t. Or if they do, any interest dims in comparison to the opportunity to talk to Charlie. I’m relegated to the side of conversations, not knowing the places they’re discussing or the people they’re talking about, and I no longer feel like I fit here.

A white-haired woman, wearing a yellow dress with a matching lightweight coat, approaches about ten minutes after we arrive. Her hair is carefully curled, and she’s wearing block heels while carrying a small handbag. Her focus is all on Charlie at first, then slides to me.

A noticeable frown forms on her face, and a trickle of dread chills my chest.

I know who this is, even before Charlie excuses himself from the current conversation and bends down to greet the older woman, pressing a kiss to her wrinkled cheek.

“Hello, Granny.”

I also know his grandmother does not like me.

“Charles,” she acknowledges. “Who’s this?”

I hold a hand out before he can reply, refusing to appear outwardly rattled even though my stomach is churning.

Her opinion is one of two Charlie cares about. I might have won Blythe over, but something tells me his grandmother won’t be as interested in my clothes or my hometown.

“I’m Elizabeth Kensington.”

Her expression doesn’t so much as twitch. I can’t tell if she recognizes my last name or if Charlie has ever mentioned me to her, but my instinct is, the answer to both is no.

“How lovely to meet you.” She makes the simple sentence sound demeaning, her accent turning the words crisp and cool.

“This is my grandmother, Grace Marlborough,” Charlie says.

There’s an undercurrent of warning to his words, and it’s not aimed at me. Grace sniffs, then purses her lips.

“What a beautiful day,” I say, the weather the best—and safest—subject I can come up with.

“We get a lot of rain in England,” Grace informs me.

“Well, it’s not raining today,” I point out.

“How astute, my dear.” The endearment is condescending, not affectionate.

Charlie’s grandmother doesn’t just dislike me. I’m pretty sure she actively hates me.

“That’s enough, Gran,” Charlie snaps.

At least her obvious disdain isn’t in my head. He sees it too.

The thought isn’t very comforting.

“Beatrice!”

I stiffen as soon as I hear the name. Of course the woman who wants Charlie’s title is here. And of course his grandmother greets her like a long-lost friend.

I saw Beatrice at Chloe’s wedding, but only from a distance. She’s even more stunning up close. Her dress swishes around her calves as she approaches—the same appropriate length as all the women here are wearing. My minidress ends just above my knees, and it feels like another strike against me.

“Grace. So nice to see you.” Beatrice bends to kiss her cheek the same way Charlie did.

“You as well, dear. Is your mother around?”

“Yes. Somewhere.” Beatrice smiles at Charlie’s grandmother, then glances at me. Her warmth dims, barely but visibly, before her gaze continues on to Charlie. “Hello, Charles.”

“Hello, Beatrice,” he replies, then rests a hand on my lower back. Both Beatrice and Grace track the movement. “Elizabeth, this is Beatrice Campbell.”

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