The strike echoed through the ballroom like a gunshot. For a single suspended second, even the champagne seemed to forget how to rise.
My husband, Adrian Vale, stood in front of me with his hand still lifted, the diamond on his wedding band catching the chandelier’s glow. Around him, two hundred guests froze at white-covered tables, forks paused above untouched salmon, mouths parted, their bravery gone.
It was our fifth anniversary.
Five years since I had stood in this same hotel wearing my mother’s pearls, convinced I had married into power. Five years since Adrian had murmured, “You’ll never be alone again.”
Yet tonight, I had never felt more alone.
His father, Richard Vale, sat at the head table like a king decaying on his throne. Silver hair. A vicious smile. A glass of bourbon in one hand and my humiliation in the other.
“Look at her,” Richard said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Still pretending she belongs here.”