My parents said I was a BAR GIRL when I brought my boyfriend home—until he played a video

But even he did not know how far they were willing to go.

### Part 7

The dinner began with Camille opening the door.

She wore an emerald dress with a neckline more suited to a hotel lounge than our parents’ dining room. Her hair fell in glossy waves over one shoulder, and the diamond earrings she once claimed were “family heirlooms” were actually purchased on one of the accounts opened in my name.

“Nora,” she said, barely looking at me.

Then she smiled at Adrian.

“You must be the famous developer.”

Adrian shook her hand.

“And you must be Camille.”

Her smile widened because he remembered her name.

My mother appeared behind her, wiping perfectly dry hands on a linen towel.

She hugged Adrian before he could decide whether he wanted to be hugged.

“We’ve heard so much.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said pleasantly.

She laughed, assuming he was joking.

I wore dark jeans and a plain gray sweater. My mother had texted that the dinner would be casual, which was how I knew everyone else would dress formally.

My father wore a jacket.

Camille wore diamonds.

The table had been set with wedding china that had not appeared since my grandmother’s funeral.

No one mentioned the inconsistency.

During appetizers, Camille steered the conversation toward real estate.

“I’ve been studying market cycles,” she announced, dipping a cracker into warm cheese. “There’s probably going to be a major correction.”

Adrian took a sip of water.

“In which sector?”

Camille hesitated.

“The property sector.”

“Residential, industrial, office, hospitality, or retail?”

“All of them, really.”

My father jumped in.

“Camille has an instinct for these things. Always has.”

“She predicted that technology stock collapse,” my mother added.

Camille had sold the small investment account my parents gave her after losing half its value on a company she learned about from a social-media influencer.

Adrian glanced at me.

I kept my eyes on my plate.

Camille continued.

“I’ve considered becoming an investment consultant.”

“What do you do now?” Adrian asked.

My mother answered for her.

“She manages high-level client operations.”

Camille worked three afternoons a week answering phones at a dental office owned by her friend’s husband.

“I coordinate multiple departments,” Camille said.

The office had four employees.

My father raised his wineglass.

“She was born to lead.”

Then my mother turned to me.

“How was your little shift last night?”

There it was.

The first cut.

“Busy,” I said.

“Did those bikers come back?”

“They weren’t bikers.”

“That’s not what your uniform smelled like.”

Camille laughed behind her napkin.

My mother looked at Adrian with apologetic concern.

“We’ve begged her to find respectable work.”

“She seems to respect it,” Adrian said.

The answer unsettled her.

She tried again.

“Of course, all work has dignity. But there are environments that affect a young woman’s reputation.”

My father nodded gravely.

“Especially late at night.”

Adrian sliced his chicken.

“What reputation does working late create?”

My mother’s smile froze.

“Well, people talk.”

“About nurses?”

“That’s different.”

“Police officers?”

“You know what she means,” my father said.

“I’m not sure I do.”

The room tightened.

Camille rescued them by asking Adrian about the downtown building he owned. She claimed she had recently advised a friend to invest in a “mixed-purpose commercial instrument,” a phrase that meant nothing.

Adrian listened with flawless politeness.

He gave her no encouragement, but my family interpreted the absence of open rejection as fascination.

By dessert, my mother was leaning toward him whenever she spoke. My father had described Camille as brilliant, elegant, loyal, and “still available because she refuses to settle.”

No one mentioned that she had been engaged twice or that both men left after discovering debts she had concealed.

I excused myself to get water.

The kitchen light cast a pale rectangle across the hallway floor. As I approached, I heard my father’s voice beyond the partially closed door.

“Not yet.”

I stopped.

My mother whispered something I could not make out.

Then Camille said, “He’s obviously interested. Did you see how many questions he asked me?”

“He was being polite,” my mother replied.

“That’s how men like him flirt.”

My father lowered his voice.

“First, he has to see what Nora really is.”

I moved closer, careful not to let the floorboard creak.

My mother answered, “I’ll bring up the men from the bar.”

“There weren’t any men,” Camille said.

“That doesn’t matter.”

My fingers tightened around my phone.

My father continued.

“Once he realizes she’s just a bartender, he’ll leave. Then you make yourself available.”

Camille laughed softly.

“And if she gets upset?”

My mother’s reply came without hesitation.

“She’ll get over it. She always does.”