I Chose the Driver They Mocked

I had a fever when my sister poured my hot soup down the sink.

My mother watched, then told me to draw another blind-box card if I wanted dinner.

At our engagement dinner, my sister drew the name of the man I'd loved for years.

I drew Luca—the driver everyone laughed at. Adrian promised to help me draw again.

That night, I caught him removing every card with his own name from the box.

So when they offered me one last chance to pick him, I chose Luca instead.

They thought I'd married a nobody.

None of us knew the man behind the wheel was the head of the Moretti family.

What would my family do when they found out?

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Ella crushed her glass and told my adoptive mother I had cut her.

I was still holding the coat she'd asked me to hang up. Ella had come home that afternoon. Vivian had hardly let go of her hand. Now a thin line of blood crossed Ella's palm. Broken glass lay at her feet.

“Mia did it,” Ella said. “I asked her where my room was. She grabbed the glass and pushed it into my hand.”

“I didn't touch your glass.” I put the coat on the entry table so I could show Vivian my empty hands. “I was right here.”

Vivian pulled Ella toward the sink. She wrapped a dish towel around the cut without looking at me. “You know how hard it was to get her back. Couldn't you give her one day?”

“I didn't hurt her.”

“Go upstairs, Mia.”

Ella pressed her face against Vivian's shoulder. Over the towel, I could see the fingers of her uninjured hand close around the stem of the broken glass. She'd done it herself. Vivian was already leading her away.

Two weeks earlier, Vivian had sat beside my bed when I had a cold and brought me chicken soup. She didn't look back.

The next morning, the dining-room staff stopped me at the breakfast door. One of them held out a black cardboard box. Inside were folded cards.

“Mrs. Grant's instructions,” she said. “Draw one for breakfast.”

I drew a card marked COLD PLATE. Through the open doorway, I saw Ella eating eggs and toast beside Vivian. My tray held yesterday's bread and a scoop of chilled oatmeal.

I sat down. “Vivian, there's been a mistake.”

She set down her coffee. “Ella says you glared at her all night. I'm trying to keep the peace. Take the breakfast you drew.”

Ella wiped butter from her thumb. “I could share,” she said, with her plate still in front of her.

I picked up the cold spoon. I wanted Vivian to ask about the glass. Instead, she turned to Ella and asked whether her hand still hurt.

By the end of the week, there was a second box for winter clothes. Ella walked through the house in a new wool coat; I drew a thin jacket with a torn lining. Vivian watched the maid hand it to me.

“It's freezing outside,” I told her.

“Then stay in,” she said. Ella was standing beside her with a fresh bandage on her palm.

I wore the jacket anyway. I had to cross the courtyard to my room above the garage, and snow had settled on the steps. Inside, my fingers were too stiff to work the zipper. I slept with the jacket over my blanket.

Three mornings later, I woke up sweating. My throat hurt when I swallowed. The thermometer on my nightstand read 102°F. I pulled on the thin jacket and went to the kitchen because there was no food in my room.

The breakfast box sat beside the stove. I drew COLD PLATE again. The cook set a bowl of rice and beans on the counter. They had come straight from the refrigerator.

“Could you heat it?” I asked.

He glanced toward the hallway. “Mrs. Grant said we're to serve what's on the card.”

I couldn't make myself eat. A pot of soup simmered behind him, close enough that I could smell the broth. “Please. I'm sick. Just one cup.”

The cook hesitated, then poured soup into a small mug. “Drink it here. Don't let her see.”

I put the cold bowl down and took the mug in both hands. Heat pressed against my palms. Before I could lift it, Ella came into the kitchen.

“That's not what you drew.” She read the card beside my bowl and reached for the mug.

“Ella, leave it. I have a fever.”

She took the mug from my hands. The cook protested. Ella tipped the soup into the sink. I watched the last piece of chicken slide down the drain. Then she set the empty mug next to my cold breakfast.

“You can draw again tomorrow,” she said.

I grabbed the counter to steady myself. “You don't have to eat those cards. You got your coat, your breakfast. Why take mine?”

Ella glanced at the cook. “I caught her taking food that wasn't hers. Tell my mother if she asks.”

The cook kept his eyes on the stove. Ella walked out. I waited until I heard her shoes on the stairs, then took out my phone and called Adrian.

He'd been my friend since we were children. At the Grant family table, everyone spoke of us as the couple who would marry. Two weeks ago, he had told me I could call if I needed anything. I needed him to tell Vivian what he'd seen of me all these years: that I wouldn't cut Ella's hand or steal her food.

He answered on the third ring. “Mia?”

“I'm sick. Ella poured out the only hot food they'd give me.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Can you come? Vivian won't listen to me.”

I heard men's voices behind him. “Not now,” Adrian said.

“Please. I have a fever.”

The call ended. His name vanished from the screen. I waited for him to call back. The cook passed me a glass of tap water. I drank it because my throat hurt too much to swallow the cold rice. Adrian didn't call.

That evening, Vivian found me in the kitchen, the untouched bowl still on the counter. Her eyes went to it, then to the thermometer I'd brought down and left by the sink.

“I was sick,” I said. “Ella threw away my soup.”

“Ella told me you tried to take hers.” Vivian picked up the thermometer. She saw the reading, put it down, and asked a maid to clear the bowl. She didn't ask if I needed medicine.

“Wash your face,” she said. “We have guests coming for the engagement dinner.”

I followed her to the dining room. Two black boxes sat on the long table, larger than the ones for food and clothes. Each had a card with one of our names: ELLA and MIA.

Vivian placed her hand on Ella's box. “Tonight you girls draw your husbands,” she said. She turned it toward her daughter. “Ella goes first.”