Page 2 of The Players We Hate
“Perfect,” my father said, voice still caught in that campaign-slick cadence. “Let’s make sure theChroniclegets this one.”
The moment the final click echoed through the room, I stepped away, slipping offstage before someone thought of another angle or another pose.
The air clung to my skin, hot and stifling, as if it were soaked in spotlights and sweat. Staffers rushed by with purpose. I leaned into the railing, the metal cool against my palm. My heart was racing, but no one noticed.
“Wren.”
I turned at the sharp sound of my mother’s heels tapping across the floor.
She approached with purpose, her jaw tight, her voice low and clipped. “What was that out there?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You looked uncomfortable. Rigid.” Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. “And your lipstick—why on earth would you wear that shade? It washes you out and makes you look ill.”
I glanced down, suddenly aware of every inch of my body. “It’s the one that came with the stylist’s kit.”
“Well, it doesn’t photograph well,” she tutted, brushing a thumb against the corner of my mouth. “Next time, ask before you try something new.”
Her gaze dropped to my hands, and she grabbed one without asking. “And your nails,” she muttered. “Seriously, Wren? You couldn’t make time to make sure your nails weren’t chipped?”
I pulled my hand away, curling it into a fist at my side. “I’ve been helping with the volunteer schedule all week.”
She murmured, “Wren, I just need to know, are you part of this family or standing in the way of it?”
The words landed with familiar weight, sharper than they should be.
She straightened her posture and smoothed the front of her dress as if that ended the conversation. “Fix your lipstick before the donors start filtering back here. And smooth out your hair. It looks like you rolled out of bed and didn’t bother with a brush.”
Then she turned and walked away, the scent of her stale perfume lingering long after she was gone.
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I stood there, staring at the space she left behind, the warmth in my cheeks fading into something I couldn’t quite name.
Not anger. Not even sadness.
Just… worn thin. Like the edges of me had been rubbed raw by trying too hard for too long.
A quiet sound interrupted the silence, footsteps soft and slower than hers.
“Hey,” Tatum said.
I turned. She stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her slacks, her brows drawn together with concern. There was no pity on her face, only calm sincerity. And maybe something like understanding.
“I didn’t mean to overhear,” she said. “I was looking for punch and… walked right into whatever that was.”
I tried to smile, but it didn’t quite land. “You get used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to, though.”
Her words settled gently. The kind of touch you didn’t flinch from. She stepped closer without reaching for me or crowding, simply being present in that steady, quiet way people are when they truly see you.
“I thought you looked beautiful,” she said. “Confident. Like someone who knows exactly who she is.”
I laughed, but it was quiet and fragile. “I was just trying to stay upright.”
“Well, you did.” Her smile was soft. “And you didn’t disappear, even if they tried to crop you out of the frame.”
I nodded, looking down at my chipped thumbnail and the smudged lipstick on the edge of my finger.
