Chapter 2: The Ice-cold Husband

    

Lillian pushed her expression to appear calm even as her breath stopped. She told herself; you knew this was your place. a wife named merely in title. 

Before she went another step, the whispering began. 

See her here. hopeless. 

She is still fixated on Mrs. Ashford, as though that defines something. 

"His mistress practically drapes herself over him," says one. 

With her nails rubbing across the delicate stem, Lillian tightened her hold on her champagne glass. Her mother had instructed her when she was small, never let them know your suffering, Lillian; a calm inhale stabilised her. Never forget to wear your crown. 

Calling every last bit of control, she raised her chin and marched farther within. A waiter approached, and she grabbed a fresh glass of champagne, sipping deliberately as though the conversation around her went under her awareness. 

At last Damon spun. 

Their glances crossed the room; his were dark as a midnight storm, inscrutable. Something glowed in their depths for a brief moment. Respect? cautioned? Excitement? Whatever it was, it disappeared before her eyes could catch it. He turned back to Seraphina silently, spoke something in her ear that made the woman smile. 

Around Lillian, a fresh wave of whispering smashed. 

The humiliation stalks her pride like a nasty flame. She wanted to go, prove she wasn't some weak, miserable wife waiting for bits of affection. Still another, though, the desperate, stubborn portion stayed firmly anchored to the earth. 

This was her fight. Her battlefield. 

She made herself grin, slow and graceful, the way a queen would respond to treachery. Underneath the porcelain front, nevertheless, her hold on the champagne glass tightened, so much that, absent caution, it might break. 

She rooted herself by curling her fingers around the wrought iron railing. You are more powerful than this. 

"lillian." 

At the familiar voice, she stiffened. A moment later Vanessa Caldwell walked behind her, a flute of champagne in hand and a knowing glance in her emerald eyes. 

Vanessa was the only friend she had left in this life; the one person she had not abandoned upon her marriage to Damon. She wore a silver gown that glistened beneath the warm glow of the balcony lights and radiated simple grace. But tonight her typical keen assurance was tempered with anxiety. 

Lillian, you do not have to stay and suffer. Her voice was subdued, but there was steel. 

Lillian managed a smile. "I'm not clear what you mean." 

Vanessa laughed, slanted on the railing. "Don't engage in that. Don't pass off yourself as not hearing them whisper or as not seeing what he is doing. She moved her head to look at Lillian. "This isn't marriage, Lillian. It's brutal. 

Lillian swallowed, maintaining a blank look. Should my response be different, I lose. Should I break, they will win. 

She said instead, voice steady: "I made vows." 

Vanessa shook her head as she breathed. And he broke every single one of them the instant he laid hands on Seraphina. 

The words came down like a punch. Lillian turned sideways, fingers gripping the fence. She need not have the reminder. All night, she had seen the evidence walk before her. 

Vanessa stretched forward, her hold on Lillian's arm strong. "Listen to me here." You identify as Lillian Davenport Ashford. You have no need for him. You go. 

Lillian thought twice. Perhaps she could? Could she leave the life she had created, the future she had always imagined? 

She felt the idea shake her. Still to come. She was not ready to give up or acknowledge loss. 

She faked still another grin, softer this time, and covered Vanessa's hand with hers. "I know what I am doing, Vanessa; I appreciate you worrying about me." 

Vanessa's mouth tightened. "Do you?"? 

A change in the air caused Lillian's pulse to speed before she could respond. She sensed him before she saw him, not sure how. 

Damon? 

Standing at the balcony's entrance, he had his tall figure shaded by the ballroom's glow. His presence drew eyeballs without effort, acting as a nonverbal directive. He had not turned to Vanessa. He saw Lillian. 

His look was dark and fierce, incomprehensible. 

Lillian matched his stare and refused to be the first to turn away. 

Langley, Sophia. 

"She's nothing but a name on paper," Seraphina snarled, delight tingling every letter. "Damon could have choose any woman, but he settled for the most miserable one." 

Then there were high-pitched, poisonous chuckles. 

Another woman said, her tone full of condescension: "She doesn't even fight back." She simply stands on a shelf, resembling a porcelain doll someone overlooked. 

Seraphina let out a dramatic sigh. "I almost feel bad for her.". Stop. Then lower, crueller, "almost." 

There was laughter in the room. 

Lillian stood still, heat climbing up her spine and stranding around her ribs. Take a breath. Ignore it. Give them nothing to satisfy them. 

She straightened and forced the strain from her shoulders. Born with affluence and composure, the old Lillian Davenport would have marched in, chin high, and quiet them with a single frigid gaze. Damon's wife, Lillian, was unique though. 

This Lillian had discovered that pride might be a lethal emotion. 

She inhaled steadily then turned on her heel and left. 

Not since she was frail. 

But she insisted on not letting them see the tears blazing behind her eyelids. 

Still, something inside her changed as she entered the ballroom once more. 

a spark. a calm, smouldering rage. 

She seemed to them to be nothing. a shadow. a vanished name. 

Let people believe that. 

He did not say straight away. His eye swept over her, evaluating, scrutinising. Not with respect but with cold computation. 

You ought to have turned away with dignity. 

With each sentence cutting deeper than the next, the words swung out like a whip. 

Lillian's fingers grounded her when they curled around the stem of her champagne glass. It was chilly. She had practiced for this, but nothing could protect her from his pure apathy. 

She raised her chin, hiding the agony gnarling at her chest. "Dignity"? Her voice was underceptively calm, silky. "You're teaching me about dignity while you parade around with your mistress?" 

Annoyance? A flutter of something, entertainment? crossed his face then disappeared under his customary detached mask. 

"This isn't about Seraphina," he continued, his voice sharp. It's about your understanding your place. 

Though there was no comedy about it, Lillian laughed quietly. And where in particular is that, Damon? The one in which I should grin as the entire city laughs at me? To be the ideal, disciplined wife while you show your deviations? 

He stiffened his jaw. You're overdone. 

She moved forward just enough to catch the flutter of irritation in his black eyes. No; I am at last seeing things clearly. 

They stood there for a minute, the strain between them electric, stifling. Then Damon exhaled sharply, as though bored with the current discussion, just as fast as he had appeared. Reaching for a fresh drink from a passing waiter, he turned his body to ignore her. 

He said, "I won't tolerate another spectacle like tonight," then sipped his bourbon. 

Lillian fixed him, a slow, sour smile curling her lips. "Oh, don't worry, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice full of false delicacy. "Next time, I'll see to it it's a spectacle worth remembering." 

Nice. She had nothing to say to him regardless. 

City lights flickering beyond the covered windows created brief shadows across his sharp face. He seemed very calm, like a man who had spent the evening at a laid-back corporate conference instead of embarrassing his wife before the whole elite. 

She made herself turn aside, her eye lowering to her left hand. Under the low illumination, her wedding band sparkled like a beautiful piece of jewellery with no meaning beyond its cost. With her thumb, she followed the band; her mouth tasted bitterness. 

Was it ever really important to him? 

Unspoken words abound in the air, each second dragging agonising length. She inhaled gently, guiding herself to remain calm. Not in front of him, she would not break. 

Damon turned, his fingers changing the cuffs on his shirt. "If you expect an apology, don't hold your breath," he whispered, his voice as smooth as silk yet harsh enough to cut. 

Lillian turned her head only to catch his eye. "I long ago stopped expecting anything from you." 

His lips rounded at the margins, but there was no warmth behind them. "Good. That will help to simplify things. 

Her hands closed, nails biting into her palm. How quickly he discounted everything, how little she meant to him in his life. She might have broken once from that. It now simply stoked the calm heat raging inside her. 

As they approached their estate, the automobile slowed; the tall gates opened without sound. 

Damon's phone buzzed just as they crossed the threshold. The sharp sound broke the quiet like a gunshot. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen