When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

I rented a dress that cost more than a month of our rent used to. Crimson, fitted, with a low back that showed off the bruises around my shoulder blades that had not yet faded. I pinned my hair up in a sleek twist that revealed just enough of the bandage at my nape to look accidental.

The ballroom was a glittering sea of chandeliers and sequins when I walked in. Waiters moved like chess pieces between tables, carrying trays of champagne. A string quartet played something elegant near the stage.

For a moment, I hesitated at the entrance, fingers tightening around the small clutch that held my phone and a tube of lipstick. Every insecurity I’d buried over eight years tried to crawl to the surface all at once.

But then I heard his laugh.

I would have recognized it anywhere. Warm, charming, the sound he’d used to get discounts from landlords and free desserts from waiters.

He stood near the stage, a champagne flute in hand, surrounded by men in suits and women in glittering dresses. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored, his posture relaxed. On his arm, draped like a prize, was Genevieve in a white gown that shimmered under the chandeliers.

White.

I almost applauded the audacity.