THE CHARITY GALA

The emerald silk felt like armour—beautiful, expensive, suffocating. Alexander had laid it out on our bed this morning, along with the diamond earrings and the Louboutin heels I could barely walk in. No discussion. No choice.

I navigated the Four Seasons ballroom like a minefield, champagne flute in hand, smile fixed in place. Across the room, Alexander stood with a group of investors, his posture relaxed, his laugh easy. But I could feel his eyes on me. Always on me.

"You look beautiful, Elena," said Jenna, Marcus's wife, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. Seven months along with their second child. "That colour is stunning on you."

"Thank you," I murmured, smoothing the silk.

Marcus grinned. "Jenna's been craving Thai food at two in the morning. I'm basically a delivery service now."

I laughed—a real laugh—remembering when life felt that simple.

"Elena Rodriguez?"

I turned. A young man approached, his face lighting with recognition. David Chen. We'd worked together at Morrison Gallery years ago, back when I had a career, an identity beyond Mrs. Alexander Blackwood.

"David! How are you?"

"Great! I'm a curator now. Can you believe it?" His enthusiasm was infectious. "I always said I learned everything from you."

Pride flickered in my chest—a feeling so foreign I almost didn't recognize it. "That's wonderful. Congratulations."

"We actually have an opening for a consultant position. You should—"

He said something funny—I don't remember what—and I laughed. I really laughed, the sound escaping before I could stop it.

Then I felt it.

The hand on my waist came from behind, fingers spreading across my ribs. Not gentle. Never gentle anymore.

"Darling," Alexander's voice was warm honey poisoned with arsenic. "We should mingle. The Hendersons are leaving soon."

His fingers pressed harder, hidden by the drape of my dress. Pain bloomed beneath his touch. My smile never faltered—I'd learnt that trick well.

"Of course," I said smoothly. "David, it was lovely seeing you."

"Wait, let me give you my—"

But Alexander was already steering me away, his hand a vice on my waist. I caught David's confused expression and Marcus's concerned one.

"Who was that?" Alexander's voice was low in my ear, dangerous.

"David Chen. We worked together at Morrison—"

"You were laughing." Each word was precise and controlled. "Loudly. Everyone could hear you."

"I was just being polite—"

His fingers dug deeper into my ribs. I kept smiling, aware of the cameras, the watching eyes. Mrs. Alexander Blackwood, perfect wife, living the dream.

Across the room, Catherine Blackwood stood with her society friends, elegant in silver Chanel. Our eyes met. She'd seen everything—the possessive grip, my rigid smile, the way I'd gone very still.

She looked away. She always looked away.

Near the bar, Vincent Blackwood held court, his booming laugh carrying across the ballroom. Alexander's father, who'd cheated on Catherine more times than anyone could count. Who'd taught his son that women were possessions to be controlled?

The apple didn't fall far.

I saw Sarah across the room, my best friend, making her way toward me. Her expression was worried and determined.

"We need to say goodbye to the Hendersons," Alexander said, smoothly changing direction.

I caught Sarah's eyes. Wanted to mouth ‘I'm okay’, but the lie wouldn't come. Because I wasn't sure it was true anymore.

The car ride home was silent. Deadly silent.

I sat perfectly still in the back of the town car, hands folded in my lap, watching Seattle's lights blur past tinted windows. The driver was present but ignored, separated by the privacy screen. I knew what was coming. I always knew.

"You embarrassed me tonight."

My stomach dropped. "Alexander, I was just being polite—"

"Polite?" His laugh was sharp, cutting. "You were flirting. I saw how you looked at him."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me, Elena. I know what I saw." His voice was cold, controlled. "Throwing your head back, laughing like he was the funniest man alive. While I'm trying to close deals with investors."

"It was just a colleague from—"

"You're always so defensive. You know who gets defensive? Guilty people."

My hands shook in my lap. Every word I said became evidence against me. Every explanation twisted into confession. There was no right answer. There never was.

The car pulled into our building's parking garage. Concrete and fluorescent lights and nowhere left to run.

"Give me your phone," Alexander said.

My stomach dropped. "What? Why?"

"If you have nothing to hide, it shouldn't be a problem."

I handed it over with trembling fingers. Resistance only made things worse. I'd learnt that lesson too many times.

He scrolled through my messages, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. I watched him search for crimes I hadn't committed, for evidence of betrayals that existed only in his mind.

"Who's 'M'?" he asked, his voice sharp.

"That's Marcus. Your brother."

"Why is he texting you?" He held up the phone, showing me the innocent message: Coffee soon?

"He was inviting both of us. For coffee with him and Jenna—"

"When did this start? You and my brother texting?"