The Public Humiliation

"Do you take that long to get dressed?"

Billy's toneless, wrathful voice burst out at me. Callum was standing by the doorway of the bedroom, flipping his watch over for the third time. He didn't even glance at me in the mirror where I was sliding between me and the last pin in my hair.

"I just wished to be correct for this evening," I panted, smoothing the silver evening dress I'd picked hours ago. My hands trembled as I smoothed the material, wishing he'd notice.

"You could put on a sack and it would make no difference," he growled, tightening his cufflinks. "No one cares about you."

My throat closed. "You're married to me. You'll be sitting next to me. They'll be looking at us."

That, he actually looked at me in the mirror. His eyes were piercing, bordering on sarcasm. "Don't deceive yourself, Zephyrine. You're here with me only because I was thrust into matrimony. Had Evangeline been ready sooner, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

I remained there. My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. I'd heard it too many times before. But it never failed to hurt.

He slapped the watch onto his wrist, pushed past without looking at me, and grumbled, "Don't let me get humiliated tonight. That's all I'm asking."

The door closed behind him, and I looked at my own face. The hair pins were too tight, the dress now constrictive.

And still, I grabbed my bag and walked after him. Because despite how far away he was, part of me still wished to make him notice me.

The lights in the ballroom were too harsh that night. Bronson family dinner was just a family dinner. Tonight It was a fund-raising banquet, with business colleagues, reporters, and even some celebrities scattered around the room. I had gone the extra mile getting myself ready, perhaps—just maybe—Callum would look at me and consider a wife he could be proud of.

My silver wedding gown hugged my curves, my hair was styled as he used to say he preferred, and the jewels his mother had presented me with on our wedding day were around my neck. I hoped that if I looked lovely, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't feel so invisible.

Callum sat beside me at the long dining table. His dark suit was exquisitely tailored, his hair slicked back, his angular jawline even more chiseled in the lights. He was the very epitome of the Bronson heir. My husband. My cold, distant husband.

I kept my head down for the majority of the evening, answering discreet small questions for other guests quietly. I smiled graciously, laughed when appropriate, and attempted to conduct myself as the wife of a great man should. In my head, I only wished that he would see me, maybe reach out and take my hand or say something warm.

In order not to drown in the silence, I addressed his sister Clarisse, sitting across from me. She was part of the Bronson family members who did not treat me rudely.

"You are lovely today," I told her, truly. Her green evening gown glittered under the lights.

She smiled warmly. "So are you, Zephyrine. That dress suits you perfectly. I was just saying that to Mother that—"

Before I could go on, a voice slipped into the crevice between us.

My stepsister. My husband's first love.

Her voice was honey-sweet, full of pretended innocence, but I was more aware. She spoke each word with intent to wound me.

She leaned over the table, smiling up at Callum's mother and then at me. "Zephyrine, you've been wed for years now, right? Isn't it unusual that there is still no child? I mean, people are beginning to question if something is. amiss."

My stomach dropped. The air around me congealed. I could hear the faraway whispers of the guests around us, their eyes flicking in my direction.

My cheeks flushed. I smiled rigidly, my hand curled around my fork tightening under the table. "Some things take time, Evangeline," I said quietly, not caring to have her notice how cutting her words were to me.

But she wasn't finished. She pushed off from the table, her lips curling with feigned sympathy. "Naturally. But perhaps the problem isn't Callum. Perhaps you simply can't offer what he needs. A proper wife gives her husband an heir, after all."

My heart struck against my ribs. She understood exactly what she was saying.

I looked at Callum, hoping—holding out—that he would say something. Save me. Tell everyone I was his wife, that I wasn't worth anything for just children.

But he didn't.

He didn't even flinch. He set his glass of wine aside and looked at me with those uninterpretable eyes, cold and distant. His voice was tart when he did finally say something.

“Maybe Evangeline is right,” he said. His words cut deeper than anything my stepsister could have said. “You’ve given me nothing in this marriage.”

I could feel my chest closing in as though I couldn't breathe. My eyes pricked with held-back tears. My hands trembled under the table, hidden from view, but my face—I remained cool. I couldn't allow them to see me break. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Laughter and chatter surrounded us everywhere, but I could no longer hear it. My ears still rang with his words. My husband. The man I had given my heart to. The man I could imagine spending my life with.

He had shamed me in front of everyone.

I stared at my uneaten food, holding back the tears. I had promised myself so long ago that I would never cry in public, never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me lose control. Least of all Evangeline.

The rest of dinner passed. I remember nothing of what was said, who laughed, and how the speeches for the good of the charity ended. All I cared about was to hold on, to hang on until I could get up from the table and not have to bow down.

While plates were being removed and people stood up to dance on the ballroom floor, I escaped unnoticed. "I have to go to the restroom," I whispered, though no one was listening.

I rushed down the hall, heels clicking against the marble floor, eyes fixed ahead so others wouldn't see the tears that were welling up in my eyes. I flapped the door open to the ladies' room and, once it closed behind me, I finally exhaled shakily.

The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized. My makeup remained flawless, dress still in order, but my eyes were bloodshot, glassy with suffering I could not keep hidden.

Slowly I thrust my hand into my purse. My hand brushed past lipstick, compact mirror, and perfume bottle until my fingers closed around the thin plastic stick hidden within.

The pregnancy test.

I had bought it days ago, too fearful to use it, too fearful to dream. But early this morning, I finally did use it. Alone and in the privacy of my bathroom, I had waited for the lines to appear.

And they did. Two faint lines. Positive.

I sat with the test in my hands, staring at the proof. My heart twisted. Evangeline's and Callum's words echoed in my mind—You've given me nothing.

But it was not so.

Tears fell from my eyes as I whispered, my voice breaking, "I'm having your babies, Callum. Why can't you see me?"

The test trembled in my hand, my entire body shaking with the weight of what I carried alone.

I was not empty. I was not worthless. Inside me, life was growing. His babies. Our babies.

And yet to him, I was nothing.

I balled a hand to my stomach, the silent tears now. I wanted to scream, yell at the world, to get him to look at me. But I didn't. Because in the recesses of my mind, I knew the truth.

No matter how many kids I bore for him, it would never be enough.

Not to Callum. Not while Evangeline stood in our way.

Giggles echoed faintly from the opposite side of the bathroom. I screwed my eyes shut, tightening my grip on the test, and cursed under my breath.

I would someday stop begging for love. I would someday stop being embarrassed. I would someday walk out with my head held high.

But not tonight. Tonight I could only cry in silence inside the bathroom, clasping the secret that was forming inside me.

And for the first time, I found myself wondering whether this marriage was over already.