Chapter 18: The Woman Beside Him

POV: IVY

I entered the ballroom wearing Michael Sterling’s ring, only to watch his girlfriend take the place of honor beside him.

The Grand Plaza’s crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant, blinding light across five hundred of the city’s most powerful figures. Corporate titans, politicians, and high-society elite moved beneath the vaulted ceilings, their voices blending into a polished hum of money and influence. Beside me, Michael walked with his usual cold, imposing grace, his arm offered to me only because the cameras lined the red carpet outside.

My fingers rested on his crisp tuxedo sleeve, but the distance between us felt like a chasm. Remembering the sting of my mistake at his parents' dinner, I kept my answers short, measured, and agonizingly careful whenever board members approached us.

“You’re remarkably reserved tonight, Gemma,” an elderly investor noted, studying me over his glass of scotch.

“I prefer to let Michael’s achievements take center stage this evening,” I replied smoothly, giving the exact nod of aristocratic modesty I had practiced.

Michael didn't look down at scenario responses, nor did he offer a word of praise. He simply continued nodding to executives, his eyes scanning the room as if waiting for the real event to begin.

He didn't have to wait long.

A sudden shift ran through the crowd near the main entryway. The sea of tuxedos and designer gowns parted as Melanie made her entrance. She looked breathtaking in a floor-length emerald satin dress, a shade so vibrant it deliberately mirrored the gown I had worn to the Sterling estate two nights prior. Her dark hair was swept up, revealing a diamond necklace that sparkled under the chandeliers.

She didn't hesitate. She glided directly toward our circle, her red-lipped smile radiant and completely unbothered by the quiet gasps of the surrounding guests.

“Michael,” Melanie purred, stepping right into our circle.

Michael’s cold demeanor shifted immediately. The rigid line of his shoulders relaxed, and a rare, genuine warmth entered his gray eyes. He reached out, casually touching the small of her back as he greeted her.

“You made it,” Michael said, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register he never used with me.

“I wouldn't miss your biggest night of the year,” Melanie replied softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against his cheek.

Right in front of three photographers and two major board directors, Michael accepted the intimacy without a flicker of hesitation. He didn't pull back. He didn't look at me. He treated Melanie’s presence not as an embarrassment, but as an expected highlight of his evening.

When we were shown to the head table, the seating card Linus had shown me was enforced to the letter. Michael sat at the center, flanked by his chief legal officer on one side, and Melanie on his left, occupying the official guest of honor seat. I was placed across from them, positioned beside a retired senator, completely sidelined at my own husband’s celebration.

As the multi-course dinner began, Melanie dominated the conversation.

She spoke with effortless charm, sliding into discussions about Michael’s recent corporate acquisitions as if she had sat in on every executive board meeting.

“Oh, Michael was relentless during the Tokyo negotiations last month,” Melanie laughed musically, turning to the city mayor sitting to her left. “He stayed up until three in the morning reviewing the shipping manifests. I had to practically force him to put his laptop away so he could eat.”

The guests around the table chuckled warmly, shooting admiring looks at Melanie. She was sharing intimate, behind-the-scenes details of Michael’s life, details that only a woman who truly lived beside him would know.

I sat silently across from them, holding my wine glass tight, forced to listen to his girlfriend paint a picture of their shared life while wearing his diamond ring on my left hand. Every time a guest asked me a question about Michael's schedule, Melanie smoothly interjected, answering on his behalf before I could even formulate Gemma’s haughty tone.

She wasn't just taking up space. She was systematically erasing me from the table.

The air grew progressively tighter until the dessert course was served. The senator’s wife turned her sharp, curious gaze toward me.

“Gemma, dear,” the woman began, leaning over the floral centerpiece. “I was reading the foundation report earlier this week. The Sterling-Vance Arts Initiative you spearheaded last spring, the committee is eager to know if you plan to host the annual spring gala at the harbor estate again this year, or if you're shifting the venue to the museum gallery?”

A sudden, freezing panic gripped my chest.

The Sterling-Vance Arts Initiative.

I searched my memory frantically. Gemma’s binder had listed dozens of charities, but the specific venue details for the upcoming spring gala weren't highlighted in the summary notes. My mind raced, tumbling through names, dates, and locations.

One second passed. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The silence stretched just a fraction of a second too long. My breath caught in my throat, my eyes widening slightly as the panic breached my calm composure.

Michael’s head snapped toward me. His gray eyes narrowed into two deadly shards of ice, his jaw clenching as he caught my visible hesitation. The damage was done. In a room full of sharks, a split-second pause was as loud as a confession.

Before I could force out a vague, safe answer, Melanie let out a soft, delicate laugh that cut cleanly through the quiet table.

“Oh, darling,” Melanie said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she looked across the table at me. “Don't tell me you forgot about the harbor estate regulations? You were so adamant about using the gardens last year.”

Melanie turned her head back toward Michael, leaning in so close her emerald sleeve brushed against his dark tuxedo jacket. She lowered her voice just enough for the surrounding board members and the senator’s wife to hear every word.

“Darling,” Melanie whispered, her dark eyes glinting with sharp, triumphant malice as she looked at my pale face. “Are you sure your wife is the woman you thought you married?”