The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWENTY

We started the dinner service with a congenial gathering around the crackling Georgian fireplace, tasting the effervescence of expensive champagne and sampling locally crafted chocolate truffles.

In the warm ambience of logs, flames and embers, I engaged in pleasant conversation with Davina, a dear friend and sister-in-law, whose company I had yearned for but had been hindered by the capriciousness of retrograde amnesia.

In a graceful, sweeping gesture, Davina introduced me to her fiancé, Hunter, a striking figure who commanded attention with his appearance alone. He possessed a rugged handsomeness, framed by a crown of dark, well-groomed hair that accentuated his chiselled features, piercing blue eyes and the kind of smile that broke hearts.

Darlene, the elder sister, reclined in an upholstered armchair by the hearth, her slender form draped in a flowing dress of midnight blue. Her long, wavy hair was pulled back into a neat bun, revealing her delicate features and expressive eyes, which sparkled in the firelight.

Darlene's husband, Jeremiah, sat across from his wife, his stare fixated on the crackling flames of the old-fashioned fireplace. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man with a well-defined jawline and melancholic brown eyes, his expression etched with lines of worry.

My mind glitched as I furtively kept an eye on Jeremiah, for I was worried about him. He was lost in introspective reverie whilst everyone else shared stories, his mind wandering to a faraway place. His posture was rigid, his shoulders tense, and his glass of champagne untouched.

It's safe to assume that he would rather be anywhere but here.

"How are the kids?" I asked Darlene and Jeremiah, then thanked the tailored waiter for the plate of seared foie gras with black truffle and brioche toast. "Daniel mentioned that Harriet has adopted the violin as her musical endeavour."

"Harriet is no Nicola Benedetti." Darlene placed an amuse-bouche in her mouth and chewed in practised silence. "In saying that, she has proven to be quite the prodigy. I have high hopes for her future."

"And what about Henry?" I inquired, realising that I retained limited knowledge of my niece-in-law and nephew-in-law, as our interactions had been infrequent. "Has he not received an offer to join a prestigious rugby academy? I find that to be excellent news."

"Oh, I declined the offer." My husband's eldest sister passed the plate of barely touched truffles to the waiter to discard. "No son of mine is to play such a savage sport," she added, and Jeremiah's eyes retreated to the depths of his skull. "He is to pursue a modelling contract."

"Not on my watch," Jeremiah mumbled into his champagne flute. "Honestly, Darlene. It's almost as if you want our son to be subjected to bullying."

"Sean O'Pry is an American model with a net worth of six million dollars," she all but chewed the poor man a new arsehole. "You never see the bigger picture. You always put a negative spin on my ideas."

Quite frankly, I was not equipped to deal with the marital difficulties of others, not with my mental faculties, so when Darlene and Jeremiah entertained contentious discourse throughout the evening, I deftly filtered their exchanges from my consciousness, reserving my participation in conversation solely for those who addressed me directly.

A team of smartly dressed servers wheeled Maine lobster with caviar and champagne beurre blanc toward the lavishly bedecked dining table. Everyone sat in time to enjoy a round of delicacies followed by cream with wild mushroom soup and pan-seared wagyu beef with rosemary and thyme, served with mashed potatoes and pan-roasted asparagus.

Fortunately, the portions were small, which allowed me to make room for the chocolate lava cake with raspberry sorbet and vanilla sauce for dessert. I savoured each bite, the crispy outer crust and the gooey interior melting on my tongue.