“What did you just say?” I asked, keeping my voice even because I refused to show them my shock.
Michael raised his eyebrows impatiently, as if I were the one slowing down the evening.
“My mother brought us here, and we can’t afford to look stingy, so pay,” he repeated, louder this time, as if the volume of sound could transform a demand into a reasonable request.
Opposite me, Diane was smiling, not warmly, but with a hint of expectation, as if she had finally reached her favorite part of the show. I glanced down at the total, and the figure seemed less like a sum of money than a message, because the price itself had never been the important thing. The important thing was that I was being placed in a situation where refusing would be seen as disrespectful, and obeying as proof that I knew my place.
“I will not pay for things I did not choose,” I said slowly, letting each word resonate without aggression.
Michael stared at me as if he had never really met his own wife, and Diane’s lips stretched into an expression reminiscent of an inner victory.
“I told you, my darling,” began Diane, addressing her son in that syrupy tone used when claiming to give advice rather than control.
Michael raised his hand to interrupt her, then turned towards me, his jaw clenched, and I could see the moment when his pride turned into something colder.
