The polished, camera-ready anchorman came home every evening and buried himself in the kitchen, experimenting with dishes I loved.
He even bought a bouquet of lilies, my favorite, despite being so allergic to the pollen he couldn't stop sneezing.
His clumsy attempts at making amends would have melted me before.
Now they just felt hollow. Pointless.
Saturday. The Channel 5 annual gala.
I walked in on Ferdinand's arm.
He stopped mid-step. His eyes locked onto a woman across the room, and his arm slipped out of my hand before he even seemed to realize he'd done it.
I followed his gaze and saw the woman I'd only known from photographs.
Vera Summers. A tailored pearl-white skirt suit, her short hair swept back without a strand out of place.
She spotted us and smiled, walking over like she belonged there more than I ever would.
"Ferdinand, come on. Let me introduce you to a few of the executives."
She held Ferdinand's arm, working the room from one executive to the next.
Anyone watching would have assumed they were the real couple.
A greasy, leering man sidled up to me, seized my hand, and insisted I share a toast with him.
I shot Ferdinand a look, silently begging him to step in.