COVENANT: Girl Code

Part 3 of The Champagne Diaries

Part 1: Hospitality

Part 2: Check Out

ANA

She sat facing the door, the way her father had taught her — always see who’s coming, never be caught off guard. The wine bar was small, intimate, the kind of place that charged thirty dollars for a glass and didn’t apologize. Dark wood, Edison bulbs, a chalkboard listing wines in careful script. She’d never been here before today, but she’d seen it enough times on the other woman’s Instagram. Her regular spot. Thursday evenings, usually. Sometimes alone with a book, sometimes with friends who looked as carefully curated as Her vintage Chanel.

Ana had ordered a glass of champagne and the woman winemaker flight. It was Women’s History Month, and every business and media channel acted like women hadn’t been doing whatever they were celebrating for centuries. Exhausting.

This pretentious little bar served three wines from Epoch Estate Wines, winemaker Jordan Fiorentini. Ana did a quick Google and deemed Jordan’s wines worthy of her order. The lineup: the 2025 Epoch Rosé, the 2019 Estate Blend, the 2021 Zinfandel. But first, champagne. She needed it to get through this conversation.

“I’ll have the Epoch flight and two glasses of Laurent-Perrier Blanc de Blancs, Brut Naure.”

“Wait, what?” The server raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I’ll have wine with a side of wine.” Ana clapped back. She was not in the mood to play with this child.

His chest deflated the moment he really looked at her. Impeccably dressed in cream from head to toe, a burgundy Birkin as punctuation — an exclamation in case you doubted her authority. Her posture was trained and rigid. He shuffled off with a half smile and returned quickly with her flight and the champagne, setting all five glasses in an even row: a barrier between Ana and the empty seat across from her.

Ana slid one glass of champagne toward the other place setting. She thought this act of hospitality would disarm Her and give Ana some power. She sipped the champagne while the Epoch flight sat in front of her, three small glasses opening and waiting.

She’d known of the affair for three months. Not suspected — known. The way you know the exact moment he stopped loving you, or the precise second your mother’s last breath leaves her body. You just know.

He’d come home with flowers. Not grocery store carnations, but peonies from the florist on Connecticut Avenue, the expensive one that required ordering ahead. Then it was the way he touched her shoulder when he passed her in the kitchen. Small gifts: a book she’d mentioned months ago, a scarf in her shades of red and orange, not the black or beige gifts he was accustomed to bringing. He started asking about her day and actually listening to the answer. The routine changed, and she knew.

Twenty-five years of marriage had taught her this: when a man starts romancing his wife after years of indifference, he is acting out what he wants to do for and with the other woman. The wife becomes a surrogate for the love he can’t fully pour into Her.

She’d hired no investigator. She’d made no scene. She’d simply paid attention. Noticed the pattern of his “late meetings.” Watched him leave the house freshly showered on Saturday afternoons for “the gym.” He thinks he’s so clever.

Once she suspected, she observed him. She never followed — even though she was tempted to swing by the gym, the office, the bar where he was supposed to meet “the boys.” She wanted to, but never did. That was beneath her. She listened and made mental notes. Dumb fuck. He mentioned Her name three times within an hour. He could not help himself, and with every syllable uttered, Ana collected receipts.

“Oh, is she a new client?” Ana asked.

“No, a friend of Mark’s, we ran into her when we were having drinks.” He lied, aware that he was giving himself away. He could hardly help himself. Pronouncing Her name made him tingle, transported him back to Her bed, Her couch, Her cold wooden floors.

A Google search. LinkedIn. Instagram. Her profile was public and easy. Ana scrolled through it, learning what she needed to know. She was younger but not young. Fun. Beautiful. They worked in the same field. She had a Georgetown address. Her life on public display. She posted a video of Her living room decorated in a mix of vintage, bohemian, and contemporary pieces blended into what Ana would have called an eyesore today, but twenty years ago was her own place. Unapologetically, selfishly created for Herself: bright, colorful, energetic. The video infuriated Ana as she mourned the loss of the woman she used to be.

Thirty seconds in, and there was the Sherald. Amy Sherald; the painter whose portraits of Black Americans have commanded six-figure prices and years-long waiting lists. A gift not available to most women, at any age, at any price. She hadn’t described it in Her voice-over; She simply panned the camera past it with the caption: if you know, you know. Ana knew — and this was her breaking point.

Her blood pressure rose so fast her head spun. Lord, he didn’t. She gasped. But she knew he did. Bought Her an artwork by Ana’s favorite artist; a gift not just expensive, but something Ana had earned after twenty years of marriage, gifted to a mistress.

Ana sent Her a message through Instagram. Direct. Clear. We should talk. Thursday, 7 PM. Maxime Wine Bar on 14th.

The Other Woman ignored her. Ana sent another. The Other Woman declined. Ana sent another, and finally The Other Woman wrote back: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Ana insisted. I know you go there Thursdays. I’ll be there anyway. Your choice whether to sit down or walk past me. He does not know we are meeting.

And now here she was, watching the door, five glasses of wine arranged like a barricade between her and the empty seat.

The door opened.

Photo Credit Jackeline Kairo @NKPStudios_

What happens next — the wine, the truth, and a confrontation that leaves no one standing — is for paid subscribers.

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