My sister’s wineglass shattered.

With a strength derived from sheer, unadulterated desperation, Victoria shouted, “Don’t you dare embarrass me.” Her fingers dug into the flesh of my forearm.

The father of Mark is a federal judge. Elena, the air these people breathe is different. Simply remain in the background. Give a nod. In a place that costs more than your yearly salary, try to seem like you belong.

I remained silent. I have been silent for fifteen years, a decade and a half that has become my principal residence. We were standing in the lobby of The Ivy, a Georgetown restaurant with lighting that is both bright enough to highlight diamonds and dim enough to conceal secrets.

Victoria, who was 45 years old and three years older than me, had spent all of those years believing she was the main character in our family’s tale. She was the Georgetown legacy, the debate team captain, the golden kid, and the person who saw life as a set of challenges to be overcome.

I was the “disappointment,” the reserved sister who didn’t spend enough time networking at the country club and too much time in the stacks of the Arlington Public Library.

Victoria wasted no time at all at the dining table, which was round and covered with thick white linen. She introduced me to the Reynolds family based on my perceived position rather than my name. With a condescending sweetness that like syrup on a blade, she continued, “And this is my little sister, Elena.” Our resident underachiever is her. She works in the bureaucratic trenches of government legislation. She leads a humble life and is happy with her hobbies and small flat.

A man with silver hair and winter Atlantic-colored eyes, Judge Thomas Reynolds, held out his hand to me. He avoided glancing at Victoria. His eyes sharpened with a sudden, electric realization as he stared straight at me.

With a voice as steady as a pulse, I said, “Your Honor.” “It is nice to see you once more.”

The only reaction was the sound of Victoria’s wine glass breaking against the table’s edge.

Her expression has been developing for fifteen years.

You must comprehend the basis of the lie in order to comprehend the devastation of that dinner. Our parents ran a prestigious Northern Virginia accounting firm. We went to the “right” schools, lived in the “right” zip codes, and were taught early on that the value of a person was determined by their status in a country club and their SUV.

Bradley, a business lawyer, was the “right” move on the chessboard, so Victoria married him. She had the McMansion, the meticulously manicured Instagram account, and the way of life that necessitated a never-ending, draining performance.

I did not attend Georgetown for law school. I couldn’t “hack it” at a legitimate institution, Victoria informed our parents. To pay for groceries, I worked three nights a week as a paralegal, took out loans to make up the difference, and attended a public school on a partial scholarship. Victoria informed everyone that I was having trouble because I wasn’t as intelligent as she was.

I didn’t work for a “White Shoe” company once I graduated. I worked as a district court judge’s clerk.

“A clerk?” Swirling a glass of pricey Napa wine, Victoria had chuckled during our Christmas dinner that year. That’s essentially a glorified secretary, Elena. I believed that your true career goal was to become a lawyer rather than an aging typewriter.

I didn’t correct her. Early on, I realized that Victoria’s contentment depended on my perceived inadequacy. The dynamics of the family did not change if she felt superior.

She was unaware that my district court judge was Frank Davidson, something that no one in the Martinez family bothered to look into. Additionally, five years later, Judge Frank Davidson would be named the US Attorney General.

I not only practiced law under Davidson’s guidance, but I became an expert in it. As a federal prosecutor, I focused on crimes that aren’t appropriate for a civil dinner conversation, such as high-level racketeering, organized crime, and public corruption. Victoria was busy divorcing Bradley because his “lack of ambition” was starting to damage her reputation, while I was winning cases that reached the Washington Post’s front page.

I was recommended for a federal judgeship at the age of twenty-nine. FBI background investigations that took 18 months, Senate confirmation hearings that resembled a public autopsy, and a level of scrutiny that would have made Victoria’s head spin were all part of the rigorous vetting process.

I declared to my family that I was “still a prosecutor.” I pretended to be a mid-level government employee earning $75,000 annually. Meanwhile, Victoria was busy organizing her second wedding to Richard, a professional in the pharmaceutical industry. “At least one Martinez sister married successfully,” she had declared, raising a glass at their engagement celebration.

I was confirmed to the federal bench three months later. I was the circuit’s youngest candidate. My family was not invited to the ceremony. I didn’t want their commotion in my haven.

Before Victoria met Mark Reynolds, I spent thirteen years sitting on that bench.

I presided over the Eastern District of Virginia United States District Court for more than ten years. I trained young lawyers who would later influence the legal system and authored opinions that appellate courts cited.

I was an apparition in my private life. I declined to share pictures of my house on social media, which led Victoria to believe that I lived in a “sad little apartment.” In actuality, I had a nearly two million dollar townhouse in Old Town Alexandria that had been painstakingly refurbished. After ten years of cautious investments and a court income that Victoria never bothered to look up, I had paid for it with cash.

Because it was dependable and, more significantly, because it validated Victoria’s prejudice, I took a five-year-old Camry to family events. She was unaware of the old Mercedes-Benz I kept in my garage and used for weekend excursions to the Shenandoah. She was unaware of my four-year relationship with Michael, a fellow judge who valued my intellect over my ancestry.

Mark Reynolds followed.

Mark was a thirty-eight-year-old senior associate with feverish ambitions. His father, however, was his true attraction and the reason Victoria’s eyes glazed over with want. The Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals was presided over by Judge Thomas Reynolds.

It was during her second date with Mark when Victoria learned about the elder Reynolds. Her voice trembled with a gleeful terror as she called me.

Mark’s father, Elena, is a federal judge. A circuit judge, not some district court nothing. Are you even aware of what that means?

As I glanced at the pile of briefs on my desk, I muttered, “Yes.” “I have a broad notion.”

You don’t, of course. He is essentially one level behind the Supreme Court as a result. It indicates that Mark comes from a significant family. Have an impact, Elena. actual power.

The warnings followed. “I can’t let you make me seem bad. Mark’s family is involved in unimaginable circles. CEOs, senators, and the privileged. Simply state that you are “in law” if someone asks what you do. Technically accurate, and it keeps them from probing you too much about your circumstances.

From the sidelines, I observed Victoria’s six-month journey to become a woman deserving of the Reynolds name. She curated an Instagram profile that was an exercise in high-society cosplay, joined charity boards, and engaged a stylist to rid her closet of anything that didn’t scream “quiet luxury.”

She once informed me in a quiet, amazed voice, “Mark’s father knows Senator Williams.” Together, they attended Yale. Is it possible? Senators are on speed dial for my prospective father-in-law.

I kept from her the fact that three years before, Senator Williams had testified before me in a closed-door hearing about a campaign financing scam. I kept the fact that I had gone to a Harvard symposium with Judge Reynolds in March a secret from her.

I just waited for the crash to happen.

It was a small-scale engagement dinner. only the close relatives.

I received a dress code via text from Victoria: “Cocktail attire.” Elena, nice cocktail attire. Not your typical blazers from the bargain rack.

I was dressed in a custom-tailored navy silk outfit. It has a subtle grace that commanded the space without being overt. Knowing that Victoria would be watching the valet queue for any indication of my “mediocrity,” I drove the Camry to the restaurant while sporting pearl earrings that Michael had given me.

Her eyes swept over me with a squinting, critical intensity as she met me at the door. “The outfit is all OK. Don’t volunteer information, just keep it in mind. Allow me to speak. I’ve informed them that you work as a government lawyer in the local courts. That is the superior option.

“Comprehensive,” I said.

Mom was wearing pearls, Dad was wearing a blazer, and both of them exuded anxiety. They treated me like a tragic afterthought and Victoria like a visiting dignitary.

The Reynolds family then showed up.

Judge Thomas Reynolds had the same dominating, silver-haired appearance as he had in court: he exuded a gravity that drew everyone to him. Caroline, his wife, was the epitome of vintage Chanel. Katherine, his daughter, was a venture capitalist who oversaw a $400 million fund. She had the restless, perceptive eyes of someone who could spot a lie a mile away.

Everyone was introduced by Mark. “This is Victoria’s family: Mom, Dad, and Katherine. Elena, her sister, and her parents, David and Marie

Victoria took over right away, raising her voice a pitch. “My younger sister is employed as a lawyer. law of the government. She feels really at ease there, despite the fact that it is extremely bureaucratic.

With a courteous grin, Judge Reynolds held out his hand to my father. He then turned to face me.

It was instantly recognized. I could see the wheels turning in his brain. I watched him come to terms with the fact that Judge Elena Martinez, who had served alongside him on three separate judicial committees, was the “underachiever” seated across from him.

I shook my head in a barely noticeable way. Not in this place. Not quite yet.

His eyes flickered with amusement as he paused. “Elena,” he said with ease. “I’m glad to have met you.”

“Your Honor,” I answered calmly. “I am the only one enjoying it.”

My ribs were touched by Victoria’s elbow. Elena, just Mr. Reynolds. Avoid being strange.

It was a slow-motion automobile wreck for dinner. With her stories too polished and her laughs too loud, Victoria dominated the conversation. She discussed her “cultural engagements,” her “charity work,” and her profound respect for those in “real power.”

Her lip curled slightly as she gave me a quick glance. Naturally, not everyone is as driven. Some folks are happy merely to be. One of those persons has always been my sister. The security of a government desk is more appealing to her than the possibility of true success.

Judge Reynolds put down his fork. It sounded like a gunshot when silver struck porcelain. “Victoria, success is a relative term,” he added, lowering his voice to the low, resonant tone he employed when rendering a decision.

Ignorant of the frost that was beginning to grow in the room, Victoria chirped, “Oh, absolutely.” However, there is a certain appeal to succeeding on your own. Tell them about your little court, Elena. Is there even a word for it?

Now Catherine Reynolds was looking directly at me. She had been silent for the majority of the dinner, but now her eyes were narrowed and she was leaning forward. “Hold on. Criminal law at the federal level? in the District of the East?