Chapter 3: The Public Mask

The grand ballroom of the St. Regis was a sea of shimmering silk, expensive champagne, and whispered secrets. It was Day 15. For the first time in over a year, Arthur Garrison was attending a public event with his wife on his arm, rather than a rotating cast of business associates or "close friends."

Evelyn wore a floor-length gown of deep emerald velvet. It was a heavy fabric, chosen specifically to hide the sharp jut of her collarbones and the way her waist had begun to shrink. She spent an extra hour on her makeup, using layers of concealer to mask the greyish tint beneath her eyes.

"Try to look like you're enjoying yourself," Arthur muttered as they stepped off the final stair. He adjusted his cufflinks, his face a perfect mask of bored aristocrat. "People are already staring."

"I am enjoying the music, Arthur," Evelyn said, keeping her voice light. "It’s a beautiful quartet."

"Just don't make a scene," he replied, his hand resting stiffly on the small of her back.

As they moved through the crowd, the sea of socialites parted. Evelyn felt the weight of their gazes. She heard the hushed tones. They all knew about Sarah. They all knew Arthur hadn't been home in months. To see them together now was the best gossip the city had seen in seasons.

"Arthur! You actually made it," a sharp, feminine voice called out.

Evelyn felt Arthur’s posture go rigid. Standing a few feet away was Sarah, draped in a gown of shimmering silver that left very little to the imagination. She held a flute of champagne and looked at Evelyn with a mixture of pity and amusement.

"Sarah," Arthur said, his voice neutral. "I didn't think you were interested in charity galas."

"I’m interested in anything that involves good wine and better company," Sarah purred. She turned her gaze to Evelyn. "Evelyn, dear. You look... different. Is that velvet? It’s a bit heavy for April, isn't it?"

"I like the weight of it," Evelyn replied, offering a polite, empty smile. "It keeps me warm."

"Is that so?" Sarah tilted her head. "You look quite thin. Arthur, aren't you feeding your wife? She looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over."

Arthur looked down at Evelyn, his brows knitting together. It was the first time he had actually looked at her all night. "She’s fine, Sarah. We were just about to head to the dance floor."

Before Sarah could respond, Arthur led Evelyn away. His grip on her waist was firmer now, almost possessive, though Evelyn knew it was only for show. He didn't like being questioned, especially about his private life.

The orchestra began a slow, sweeping waltz. Arthur pulled her into the center of the floor. They moved together with a practiced grace—years of formal events had made their bodies familiar with the steps, even if their hearts were strangers.

"You’re light," Arthur said abruptly. They were spinning slowly, the lights of the chandeliers blurring above them.

"I told you, I’ve been dancing since I was six," Evelyn said.

"No. Not that." Arthur’s hand shifted on her back. His thumb grazed the fabric of her dress, right where her spine felt like a row of jagged stones. "You’re barely there, Evelyn. Are you dieting again? Is this some new stunt for attention?"

"I'm just not very hungry lately, Arthur. Stress, I suppose."

"Stop it," he snapped, though his voice stayed low enough for the music to drown it out. "The pale skin, the weight loss—it’s pathetic. If you think making yourself look frail will make me feel guilty for wanting a divorce, you’re wrong. It just makes you look weak."

Evelyn looked up at him. She saw the jaw she used to love to kiss, the eyes she used to look for when she was scared. Now, all she saw was a man who was angry because his "hostage" looked a little too realistic.

"I’m not trying to make you feel anything," she said quietly. "I'm just dancing with my husband."

She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment. She could hear his heart beating—steady and strong. It was a cruel sound. A sound of a man who had decades of life left in him, while hers was ticking away like a broken clock.

Arthur didn't push her away, but he didn't pull her closer either. They finished the dance in silence.

As soon as the song ended, Evelyn felt a tickle in the back of her throat. It was sharp, like a needle. She tried to swallow it down, but the urge to cough was becoming a physical pressure in her chest.

"I need some air," she whispered.

"I'll get the car," Arthur said, looking relieved to be leaving. "Wait for me at the side entrance. I don't want to deal with the paparazzi at the front."

Evelyn nodded and hurried toward the exit. She barely made it to the quiet, shadowed corridor near the valet station before the fit took her. It started as a small, muffled sound, then erupted into a violent, racking cough that shook her entire frame.

She leaned against the cold stone wall, her hand over her mouth, gasping for air that wouldn't come. She felt the warmth against her palm before she saw it.

Slowly, she pulled her hand away.

In the dim light of the streetlamp, the white lace handkerchief she held was ruined. Bright, crimson streaks of blood stared back at her. Her breath hitched. She quickly folded the cloth, hiding the evidence, and leaned back against the wall to catch her breath.

"The car is here," Arthur’s voice boomed from the end of the hall.

Evelyn jumped, shoving the handkerchief into her small clutch bag. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stepped out into the light. Arthur was standing by the open door of the black sedan, his face impatient.

"What took you so long?" he asked as she climbed into the back seat.

"Just caught my breath," she said, her voice sounding raspy.

Arthur climbed in beside her and signaled the driver. As the car pulled away from the curb, the interior was bathed in the passing glow of the city lights. Arthur was looking out the window, but then he paused. He turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her face.

"Evelyn," he said, his voice unusually sharp.

"Yes?"

He reached out, his gloved hand moving toward her face. Evelyn froze, her heart hammering. He brushed his thumb against the corner of her lower lip. When he pulled his hand back, there was a small, dark smudge on the tip of his finger.

In the flickering light of a passing streetlamp, the color was unmistakable.

Arthur looked from his finger to her eyes. His expression wasn't one of pity—it was a confusing mixture of shock and a dawning, dark realization.

"Evelyn, what is that?" he asked. "Why is there blood on your face?"