Lili
The dining table gleams under candlelight—glassware perfectly placed, each setting calibrated to the inch. Lili moves from wine bottle to napkin fold, wrapped in Frame leather leggings and an oversized Loro Piana knit. Lana Del Rey drips through the speakers, melancholy and slow.
The door buzzes. She opens it to find Gareth, cradling a bottle of Barolo. His eyes light up, like always. “You look great,” he says, stepping inside. “Is that Baccarat Rouge?”
“Too much?” she asks.
“Maybe a little,” he grins, just as Daphne and Boots sweep in behind him.
Lili’s smile falters. Daphne? Seriously?
She told Boots not to bring Daphne—not without Shane there to keep her off Casey. But here she is. They’re a study in contrasts: Daphne in a slinky Etro slip, already laughing too loud; Boots in wide-leg Chloé denim and a billowing Zimmerman blouse, cool as ever, as if nothing mattered.
“Lili, darling, I’m starving,” Boots declares, tossing her bag onto a chair. “Tell me you didn’t go full Gwyneth on us.”
Lili gestures to the spread—crudités, hummus, artisanal crackers. “Would I do that to you?”
No, she wouldn’t. Because she needs this. Just one night of friends and comfort food. But when she texted the group chat, the muted response told her everything. Those nights of candlelit pasta and too much red wine now felt like another life.
Back during COVID, Lili, Casey, Boots, Gareth, Shane, and Daphne had formed their own pod. For a while, it felt real. Like a little chosen family, tucked inside the wreckage of the world.
But life resumed. The hangouts dwindled. What used to happen weekly became rare—once, maybe twice a year, when no one had a better invitation.
Still, Lili knew it wasn’t just time. It was her. Things hadn’t been the same since Casey ruined everything. How could they be? Everyone knew what had gone on in their marriage… because Lili had told them. And now the group was fractured. Because she’d opened her big, fat mouth.
Boots’s tone made it clear when Lili called to rally the troops—this wasn’t a party she was dying to attend. “You don’t need to do all that, babe,” she’d said.
“But I want to,” Lili insisted. “I miss us. Laughing, talking for hours… like we used to.”
Boots fell quiet for a moment. “Yeah. That was a different time, for sure.”
But Lili pushed anyway. She needed to believe things hadn’t changed. That some piece of their old closeness could still be salvaged. And if that meant Boots dragged Daphne along?
Fine. I’ll just pretend to be over it, like I always do.
“Where’s Casey?” Gareth asks, pulling her from the thought.
Lili’s smile holds, barely. “Working late,” she says from the kitchen, glancing at her phone. He still hasn’t even so much as texted. And she still needs to check that same old gut reaction whenever he’s late, or he doesn’t text back. Trust is a choice, she reminds herself.
Daphne trades a glance with Boots, then grabs an olive and leans back. “There he is,” she says, just as the front door opens. She pops the olive into her mouth.
Across the apartment, Casey steps in, loosening his tie, collar slightly askew. He drops his bag, kicks the door shut behind him.
“Well, well,” Gareth calls from the couch. “Look who made it.”
Casey offers a crooked smile as he crosses the room. “I know, I know. Late to my own dinner party.”
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He drops a quick kiss on Lili’s cheek, his hand lingering briefly at her waist as he moves past the kitchen.
“Better fashionably late than early,” she says, her eyes brightening just a little as he walks away, barely noticing the familiar wash of relief that always hits her in moments like this. Not just relief—gratitude. He’s still mine. For tonight, at least.
She adds a final sprig of dill to the last plate. “Voilà,” she murmurs, adjusting it just so. Then, with a glance toward the couch: “You kids ready to eat?”
Dinner unfolds in fits and starts—gallery openings, work gossip, the occasional name-drop. Boots, never one to waste a captive audience, launches into a story about a charity gala at Chateau Marmont, where a certain A-lister tried to bid on their own donated art, and still lost. They all laugh too hard.
Then Daphne chimes in: “So, Lili. How’s the brand doing?” She sips her wine, glass filled to the brim. “Saw it on my feed yesterday.”
“Of course you did,” Casey says with a dry laugh. “The algorithm knows you live ten feet away.”
Lili gives him an annoyed look. “Thanks, Daph. It’s going well. Direct-to-consumer’s brutal without backing, but it’s growing.”
“Told her before,” Casey cuts in, shaking his head, “social media isn’t a business plan. ‘Influencing’ isn’t a strategy.”
Daphne rolls her eyes, sinking back into the rattan mid-century chair. “Please, Casey. She’s turning her name into a brand while you turn yours into a case study in mediocrity.”
“Good one, Daph,” Casey says, sticking out his tongue. Then downs the rest of his wine.
Lili catches it. It’s nothing. Just banter.
Boots jumps in: “It’s true, social moves the market. The smart ones adapt.”
“And you, Casey?” Gareth asks, swirling his wine as he shoots Casey a look. “Still busy turning other people into millionaires?”
“I am. Lucky for you and the real estate market. Not all of us get to play dress-up for a living.”
Lili sets her glass down, no longer hiding her irritation. “What’s with the fashion digs, Casey? Enough already.”
She’d only recently started to examine her dynamic with him, something that had become so natural and routine over the years that she’d barely noticed it. The casual put-downs, the condescending jabs disguised as bickering, the way he always managed to diminish everything she cared about. That’s just the way we are, she’d rationalized for years. All normal couples do it. It’s our version of foreplay. But ever since their issues began, everything had shifted. She’d started to scrutinize every inch of their marriage… and it was starting to look like her own husband barely respected her. Had it always been like that? Or had approaching her mid-thirties made the insults feel sharper, less like a joke and more like truth?
“C’mon, wifey.” Casey flashes her another roguish grin, like it’s charming. “Save the bickering for foreplay.”
“Easy, tiger,” Daphne interjects, lifting a glass, matching his smirk. “Don’t waste all that smarm on your wife.”
Lili’s done forcing her smile. She’d spent so long avoiding confrontation, letting him be a dick, not stooping to his level. But since she’d started questioning everything, the avoidance looked less like strength and more like a bad habit.
“Who needs more wine?” she asks, rising abruptly, eyes flicking past Daphne. “I know I do.”
By morning, she’s still not talking to him, and he hasn’t even noticed. Sunlight spills across the pale stone counters, the room quiet except for the slow drip of the coffee Lili hasn’t touched.
On her phone, her thumb hovers over an old wedding photo. Another of her bad habits—revisiting old memories whenever doubt creeps in. She studies it, trying to see everything more clearly: Casey laughing, her flushed with wind and wine on a New York sidewalk. Back then, they believed in an empire—their empire. The one they dreamed of building together. The one that led to LA.
But the photo fades as her inbox lights up: Collab Opportunity! Urgent! A sharp breath escapes as she opens the DM and reads it. Then reads it again.
“Casey!” she shouts, ignoring the part of her that wants to hold back. “One of the top stylists in LA wants to work with me!”
“Nice,” he mumbles, barely looking up as he forks eggs into his mouth.
Lili sits across from him, trying to draw out the smallest flicker of support. “That’s it? This could change everything.”
He shrugs, still chewing. “They probably just want free samples. It’s LA, babe. Everyone’s a scam.”
She’s already on her feet. “Thanks for the encouragement, babe.” She grabs her keys from the counter. “Guess I’ll go find someone who actually gives a damn.”
Half an hour later, she’s still agitated, pacing through Boots’s sunlit living room.
“They want free clothes, a profit cut, and full creative say. I should be thrilled, right? Casey thinks I’m delusional.”
Draped in a terrycloth robe, Boots crosses her legs. “You want my advice?”
Lili nods, finally sinking into the pristine bouclé couch.
“Negotiate,” Boots says, setting down her coffee cup. “Or walk. But don’t let some man with emotional halitosis and a thing for trashy marketing interns tell you who you are. Stop asking Casey to confirm you’re worth something.”
Lili laughs. Not bitter for once. Boots leans in, taps Lili’s phone with one fingertip.
“You’re being watched now, babe. So decide. Are you building a brand, or babysitting a crumbling ego?”
“I just decided. I think?”
“You don’t think. You know.” Then, with a wink: “Now go make them regret underestimating you in the first place.”