Page 38 of Atlas
Eventually, the couple are swept away by someone shinier, and we move to the edge of the room. Anthony’s hand rests lightly on my lower back, a constant reminder of his presence . . . or his control. I haven’t quite worked out which.
“You did well,” he says, brushing a speck of lint from my shoulder. “I mean, a little less nervous energy would be good next time, but still. Proud of you.”
I nod again. That word,proud, always lands strangely when he says it. Like I’m a student, not a partner.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
We dance for a little while, or rather, he dances, and I try to follow. He’s good at leading. Of course he is. He’s good at being in charge of things. People.Me.
At one point, when I catch sight of myself in one of the wall mirrors, I barely recognise the woman staring back. Perfect posture. Perfect makeup. Perfect dress. But there’s something vacant in her eyes, like she’s not sure how she got here again, in this world.
Later, we’re seated at a long table covered in gold-dipped menus and floral arrangements. The conversations swell and fade like tides, and I try to join in where I can. Anthony’s hand rests casually on my thigh under the table, but it’s not intimate. It’s possessive.
When dessert arrives, he leans in close, his voice low. “You hardly touched your main. Are you feeling alright?”
“Just not that hungry,” I whisper.
“You have to be careful,” he says, eyes still on the table. “You’re naturally slim, which is lovely, but skipping meals can make you look drawn. Especially under lights like these.”
I nod and stab at my dessert, even though I feel sick now.
Compliment, correction. Compliment, correction. That’s how he does it.
I don’t know when I started noticing it—the way every kind word is a velvet-wrapped critique. The way he shapes me, or tries to. It’s happened much faster this time. Damien was slower, building me up over a year or so before showing his true colours.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But deep down, I know I’m not, because I’ve seen it all before. First with my parents, then with Damien, and now, I’m here again.
We’ve just finished dessert when I spot them.
My mother’s dress is ivory with silver beading that probably cost more than this entire ball, and my father is in his usual uniform—black tux, tight smile, eyes that sweep the room like everyone’s beneath him. I feel my spine stiffen.
“Everything okay?” Anthony asks.
I nod, trying to keep my head to the side, praying they don’t spot me.
“Anita?”
I briefly close my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice, turning in her direction and forcing a smile. “Mother, what a wonderful surprise.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks as I stand and lean over to kiss her cheek.
“I was invited,” I say, glancing to Anthony, who also stands, straightening his jacket.
“Anthony Carlisle,” he says, holding out his hand to my father, who grabs it firmly and shakes.
“George Jenson, and this is my wife, Carol.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Anthony says, his arm snaking around my waist. “At last.”
I want to point out that we’ve only been on a few dates, five max, so meeting my parents wasn’t really on the agenda for at least another few months.
Anthony continues, “I’ve heard a lot about you both. It’s great to finally meet the people responsible for raising such a remarkable woman.”
I should call him out on his lie. I haven’t told him a single thing about my parents, but I remain silent, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that correcting him in front of them will piss him off.
“I’m sorry to say Anita hasn’t told us a thing about you,” my father replies, shooting me an irritated look. “And she ran out on our dinner plans the other day, so we didn’t get to catch up.”
“I apologise for that,” I mutter. “I had an emergency come up.”
