The Governor’s regret, his broken wife burned it all

Evelyn

My husband is a whore.

Everyone knows it. He’s probably seen more underwear than Victoria’s Secret ever produced but still I endure. That is what marriage is for they say.

That thought lands in my throat like a stone while I smile for the cameras. The lights flash white, merciless bleaching the room into a blur of champagne and fake laughter. Alfred’s hand sits heavy on my waist, fingers relaxed just enough to look tender. The perfect husband.

He waves, I nod, we look like the picture of power and purpose. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder, the golden couple of his campaign’s charity fundraiser. Together we make this work, even if not together I will do anything to save my marriage.

The ballroom is a field of light. Chandeliers spill over polished marble. Crystal glasses chime. Laughter swells, practiced and hollow. A jazz trio hums from somewhere behind a wall of orchids, their notes soft and expensive. The scent of perfume and money hangs thick in the air.

Another night in our ongoing performance. The hotel ballroom smells of champagne and money expensive perfume clinging to air that’s already too sweet. Waiters drift through the crowd like ghosts in black vests, refilling glasses before anyone notices they’re empty. A jazz trio plays something low and clever. It’s supposed to make people generous. I’ve been to a thousand of these things. Smiled through all of them. I can tell who donated just for the photo and who’s here to get drunk enough to forget the things they did to afford it.

“Beautiful crowd tonight,” Alfred murmurs, voice low, hand on my waist.

“It is,” I say. Smile still locked in place.

He chuckles. “Try not to glare at my donors, sweetheart.” He teases, and the crowd around us chuckles like he’s said something charming.

I almost laugh, but it comes out small. “Just keeping an eye on my investment,” I whisper

He leans closer, the warmth of whiskey on his breath. “Keep that smile. Reporters are everywhere.”

And I do. Because I’ve learned that silence is easier to quote than pain.

The flashbulbs pop again. Someone asks for a photo. We pose, the golden couple. His hand stays on my waist . His cologne mixes with champagne. He looks at me and doesn’t really see me. But I wish he would just really look at me and everything will be okay. I remember when he used to. When we were still broke and laughing and he’d tug me out of the courtroom after long days, saying we’d conquer the world. I used to believe him. Now, I just keep his world from falling apart. I have hopes things will get better and he will stop humiliating me.

He’s charming when there’s an audience. He always has been.The problem is the show doesn’t end when we get home.

My fingers tighten around my glass. The stem threatens to snap. I loosen my grip and laugh at a joke I didn’t hear.

The man on stage raises funds and faith in the same breath. He’s charming, magnetic. It’s why I married him. It’s why I can’t seem to stop believing he’ll look at me the way he used to.

Across the ballroom, Julia the campaign’s newest intern stands too close. She’s young, glossy, the kind who calls him “sir” and means it like a prayer. Her dress is too short, her smile too bright. He leans in to say something. She laughs, head tilted back, eyes full of things I used to give him.

I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s just ambitious. He’s just charming. He’s under pressure. I tell myself a lot of things lately.

A woman from the donors’ committee floats toward me, her pearls knocking softly against her neck. “Evelyn! You must be so proud of him,” she gushes. “Such grace under pressure. Truly a man of the people.”

I smile. “He does his best.”

She sighs like it’s romantic. “And with a wife like you beside him, how could he fail?”

I nod, careful, gracious. “How indeed.”

The conversation dissolves. My face aches from holding shape. I slip away down the corridor, heels whispering against the marble. The further I walk, the quieter the laughter gets until it’s just me, the hum of distant music, and my reflection in the gold-framed mirror.

For a second I pretend I’m somewhere else before the suits, before the scandals, before the waiting.

Then I hear laughter. His and another woman High and light almost flirting

I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror. My hair’s perfect, my lipstick untouched.

If I didn’t know me, I’d think I was happy. I used to be happy. Back when I believed success and love could share a bed. When Alfred would sneak into my office just to kiss me between court filings. When I thought marriage meant safety.

I press my palm to the cool wall, breathing through it. He wouldn’t be so careless here. Not tonight. Not when everyone’s watching. I’m being dramatic again. That’s what he’d say. You’re imagining things, Eve. Don’t embarrass yourself.

The mirror doesn’t answer, only reflects a woman too well-dressed to fall apart.

The door opens. A young woman I barely recognize steps out of the restroom. She pauses. “Mrs. Cole? Are you alright?”

I blink fast, realizing my eyes sting. “Just… makeup in my eyes. I’m allergic to everything these days.” I laugh softly, and so does she, relieved.

When she’s gone, I wash my hands and let cold water steady me. My rings flash under the light symbols of a promise that feels more like debt.

The moment she’s gone, I exhale. My hands tremble. Not with rage just exhaustion. There’s a difference. Then I fix my lipstick, retie my hair. My ring glints under the light, heavy with meaning I’m not sure I believe in anymore. I whisper to my reflection, barely audible: “You can fix this. You always do.”

By the time I return, my expression is steady. The donors haven’t noticed I left. The band has shifted to something louder. Julia is still there, a little pink in the cheeks, her hand grazing his sleeve as she laughs again.

I glide back to his side, pretending not to see it.

Alfred turns, flashing that easy politician smile. “There you are, darling.”

“Just freshened up.” I take his glass from the waiter and lift it toward him. “To a successful night.”

He lifts his glass toward me, He raises his. “To us.” I clink my glass gently, watching the bubbles rise and burst. The champagne tastes sweet, too sweet. I tell myself I still love him.

And for tonight, I believe it.