At my husband’s promotion party, I spent the evening behind the bar pouring champagne while his mistress took my place—wearing my jewelry. His boss noticed. He looked at me with silent pity. I kept smiling, pouring, disappearing. Then, just before midnight, his boss raised his glass and called my name. From that moment on, everything fell apart.
I stood behind the bar, wearing a dark dress I hadn’t chosen, filling glasses that once seemed meant for my hands. The Grand Hilton’s ballroom was bathed in warm light. Laughter echoed off the polished marble. They were celebrating the success of my husband, Daniel Wright, my husband of eleven years. He was receiving praise, self-assured, untouchable.
And I, I barely existed anymore.
Earlier that evening, Daniel had leaned towards me. “Help me out a bit tonight. It’ll make a better impression.” His fingers had closed briefly around my wrist—not painfully, just enough to remind me of the balance of power. I had nodded. Saying yes had become second nature.
At the head table, in the place that should have been mine, sat Vanessa Cole. Around her neck glittered my diamond necklace, the one Daniel had given me for our tenth wedding anniversary. I knew every facet of it, every sparkle. I also recognized the way she laughed, the way she placed her hand on her arm—familiar, confident, almost assertive.
Some guests looked away. Others watched without embarrassment. Daniel’s boss, Richard Hale, had seen. Our eyes met as I walked by with a tray. There was no anger or judgment in his eyes. Only quiet empathy. Strangely, that hurt me more than anger.
I continued to smile. To serve. To hear the compliments about Daniel’s integrity, leadership, and character. Every word had a bitter taste.
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