The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Satins Over Scars

A/N: Hello, everyone! Here's another chapter for you. This is a bit of a game-changer for the story, because suddenly, there will be more at stake here. I'm writing the last couple of chapters of the story and it hurts a bit, to see what some of them will go through. But that's enough spoilers now.

Here you go, enjoy!

There's some darkness in every story about light and this moment is part of that reality we don't always see. I hope that whoever has found themselves in this situation, can brave their way out.

***

Books, TV shows and movies would have you believe that the lives of the rich and privileged were wrought with scandals and secrets.

I thought that too, and decided that most of them probably just liked living their lives as if they were in a bad daytime soap opera—or a good one if the goal was to have a plot so full of twists and turns you couldn’t keep track of whose adoptive daughter turned out to be the forbidden love of the man who came back from the dead after his bad twin pretended to be him all this time and destroyed the real biological family of the woman who now carried the baby of a taxi driver who wasn’t really a taxi driver because he might be the long-lost heir to a large and old family fortune. 

Caught your breath? I did say it was complicated.

Anyway, I once wondered why anyone would want to live with so much drama. It wasn’t until this week that it occurred to me that the answer might be simple—the rich and privileged may just be way too busy to take the time to untangle the mess in their lives.

When a princess sat on a throne with the entire kingdom looking on, waiting with bated breath for her next command, she couldn’t really keep excusing herself to go to the bathroom so she could splash some water on her face and give herself a little pep-talk to get it together. 

Secrets, scandals, betrayals and guilt—they all had to wait for the duties that came first.

At least that’s been my excuse—the one I preferred over the other, which was me feeling terribly guilty and wimping out by avoiding everyone in the know.

Guilt is like gravity—it keeps your head down.

The weekend that followed my come-to-Jesus moment at the Maxfield’s, Brandon and I skipped the usual family brunch.

I didn’t say anything, hoping I didn’t have to face anyone anytime soon but also not wanting to deprive Brandon of his family either.

He may have noticed my reticence but Brandon said nothing of it when he declared that we were driving out to the beach house that weekend. He insisted it was going to be one of the last few quiet weekends we’d have together before the holiday madness took over. After glancing at the Championettes’ itinerary in the coming months, his prediction was spot on.

In two weeks for example, was the Arts Appreciation dinner—the first of the Society’s four big charity fundraisers in the year.

It was held the same weekend every year, with the same concept, at the same venue—the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum which was a stunning piece of architecture, aptly fitting its namesake who was a highly-esteemed patron of the arts and a philanthropist. Inspired by Venetian palaces, it housed an old-fashioned courtyard in the center of three levels of galleries that looked over it. From the glass window that streamed light into the impeccably manicured garden, to the arched balconies, to the lavish details, the place was romantic and inspired, fitting into the Championette ideal of elegance and grace.

Each year, the Society held a fancy dinner event, inviting fresh talents from all over the city to showcase their work to a prestigious guest list that was made up of the press, influential members of the city’s art foundation, and most importantly, well-paying art connoisseurs and patrons from all over the country.