I stood frozen in the doorway of the Harborview Hotel ballroom, a room of chandeliers and crisp suits. Ethan had called it “just a work fundraiser,” but he’d still given me the address. I came because he’d been sleeping with his phone under his pillow, and because Sophie, my eight-year-old, kept asking why Dad “talked quiet” when he thought we couldn’t hear.
A woman in a fitted navy gown blocked my path. Marissa Cole—Ethan’s vice president, the name I’d seen in late-night emails and on the florist receipt I found in our recycling. Her lipstick didn’t move when she smiled. “Did you really think you were invited?” she asked.
Behind her, the room kept glittering—clinking glasses, soft jazz, coworkers laughing. Then the laughter thinned as people noticed me. Ethan was at the bar, and for a moment I thought he’d rush over. Instead, he looked down at his watch, not at me, like time might save him.
My daughter’s hand slipped into mine. Sophie’s palm was damp, and the small pressure of her fingers reminded me I couldn’t fall apart here. “I’m Ethan Reed’s wife,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “We’re here for the Harborview Children’s Fund.”