Chapter 2 - The Queen of Scarsdale
Lauren had been the undisputed mean girl of our senior year. Twenty years later, she hadn't changed her script—she had simply upgraded her budget.
She swept into the room draped in a sparkling emerald-green designer gown with a dramatic train. Around her neck hung a heavy diamond pendant that caught every beam of light in the ballroom. On her wrist was a diamond tennis bracelet, and in her hand, she clutched a custom python-skin clutch.
Beside her, Jason was practically bowing. He took her coat with the deference of a butler and personally escorted her to Table 1, pulling out the center chair for her.
"Lauren! You look sensational!" Jason announced loudly enough for half the room to hear. "We were just waiting for you!"
"Oh, Jason, stop," Lauren purred, her voice echoing with rehearsed elegance as she adjusted her giant diamond ring—a rock so large it looked uncomfortable to wear. "The traffic coming down from Scarsdale was just dreadful. Michael wanted to drive me right to the door in the Escalade, but I told him to just drop me off at the valet."
"Scarsdale!" a woman at Table 1 gasped softly. "Lauren, you live in Scarsdale now?"
"Of course, sweetie," Lauren laughed, a high-pitched, tinkling sound. "We bought a six-bedroom stone manor on two acres last year. It was a absolute steal at three point four million. But honestly, with Michael’s position, we needed the space for hosting."
I picked up my water glass and took a slow sip.
Mark leaned across the table toward me, rolling his eyes. "Has she breathed once without mentioning money since she walked in?"
"Give her time," Sarah whispered. "She’s only been here three minutes."
For the next twenty minutes, Lauren held court at Table 1. Her voice floated across the ballroom, easily drowning out the soft jazz quartet. She talked about her summer trips to Amalfi, her private tennis club, her child’s seven-thousand-dollar-a-month private preschool, and her husband’s high-powered career.
Then, Lauren’s eyes began scanning the room.
She looked past the head tables, past the dance floor, until her gaze finally landed on the dark, shadowy alcove by the kitchen doors.
Her eyes locked onto me.
A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She picked up her champagne glass, smoothed down her emerald gown, and began walking across the ballroom directly toward Table 12.
"Oh, no," Sarah muttered under her breath. "Here she comes."
Lauren’s high heels clicked sharply on the polished parquet floor. She stopped right at the edge of our table, leaning against a vacant chair, her diamond pendant resting against her collarbone.
"Emily?" Lauren gasped, her tone dripping with dramatic, theatrical surprise. "Is that really you?"
I looked up, keeping my expression entirely polite. "Hello, Lauren. Long time."
Lauren’s eyes instantly dropped to my shoes. Then to my plain linen dress. Then to my unbranded clutch resting on the table. A look of profound, patronizing pity filled her eyes.
"Oh, sweetie," Lauren sighed, placing a soft, manicured hand over her heart. "Look at you! You haven't changed a bit! Still so... basic."
"It's comfortable," I said simply.
"Well, yes, I suppose comfort is important when... well, when you don't have to dress for corporate events," Lauren said, glancing around at our dark corner next to the kitchen doors. She clicked her tongue in fake dismay. "Jason put you all the way back here? Right by the trash kitchen? That is just terrible."
"We like it here, Lauren," Mark spoke up defensively. "It's quiet."
Lauren ignored Mark entirely, keeping her focus locked onto me like a hawk.
"Emily, I heard about your family’s little business," Lauren said smoothly, taking a dainty sip of her champagne. "Your dad had that small metal shop on the east side, right? A welding place or something?"
"It started as a fabrication workshop, yes," I answered truthfully.
"Right! Such hard, dirty work," Lauren shuddered slightly, shaking her head. "I imagine it’s been tough keeping a small shop like that afloat with the economy the way it is. Manufacturing is dead in New York, sweetie."
She leaned down, placing her hands on the edge of my table, letting her heavy diamond ring flash right in front of my face.
"Listen, Emily," Lauren purred, her eyes bright with condescending generosity. "I hate seeing old classmates struggle. My husband, Michael, knows half the business world in New York. He manages major logistics and real estate assets. If you ever need a job—maybe something in office administration or executive reception—let me know. I can easily have Michael put in a word for you."
Sarah and Mark stared at Lauren in absolute disbelief.
I sat quietly for a beat. I didn't get angry. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't blurt out my net worth or throw my credentials in her face.
I simply looked her in the eyes and smiled.
May you like
"Thank you, Lauren," I said softly. "That's very generous of you."
Lauren beamed, clearly thrilled with her own grand display of charity. "Think about it, sweetie! No one should have to sit by the kitchen doors forever."
