Men in tailored suits stood near the fireplace talking about real estate deals. Women in designer gowns leaned over champagne flutes, whispering about the new estate. A string quartet played beside the ballroom doors. Caterers moved through the crowd with silver trays of oysters, lobster bites, and expensive wine.
And me?
I stood near the buffet table in a cream dress I had worn three times already, holding a bottle of wine with both hands because Madeline had snapped her fingers at me like I was a server.
“Chloe,” she hissed, her red velvet gown brushing the floor as she came up beside me. “Stop standing there looking lost. Go refill Mr. Daven’s glass. He’s a CEO, not one of your diner friends from Ohio.”
Her pearl necklace sat perfectly at her throat.
Her smile was sweet enough for the guests.
Her eyes were poison.
“Yes, Madeline,” I said softly.
She leaned closer, her perfume sharp and expensive.
“And do not embarrass us tonight,” she whispered. “This family has worked too hard to have you make us look cheap.”
That almost made me laugh.
Worked too hard.
If buying a mansion with someone else’s money counted as work, then sure. The Hamiltons were exhausted.
I carried the wine to the VIP table where Walter Hamilton sat with several important men. Walter was my father-in-law, though he had never once treated me like family. He looked at me like I was a stain on his white tablecloth.
I leaned toward Mr. Daven.
“Would you care for more wine, sir?”
My hand trembled.
Not from fear.
From anger I had swallowed for too long.
A few drops of red wine slipped from the bottle and landed on the sleeve of his white shirt.
The table went silent.
“Oh,” Mr. Daven said, looking down.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, reaching for a napkin. “Let me—”
Walter slammed his hand on the table.
“You useless little embarrassment.”
The music seemed to soften.
People turned.
My cheeks burned before anyone touched me.
“It was an accident,” Mr. Daven said, uncomfortable. “Really, Walter, it’s fine.”
But Madeline had already seen.
She crossed the room slowly, smiling at guests as she passed, then stopped beside Ethan.
My husband.
The man who had once kissed my forehead in a rented apartment and told me, “I don’t care where you come from. I only care who you are.”
He looked handsome that night in a navy suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, a gold watch on his wrist. He had been laughing with investors, playing the proud heir of Hamilton Construction.
Madeline didn’t speak to him.
She just lifted her chin toward me.
A command.
Ethan’s face changed.
For half a second, I saw hesitation.
Then I saw cowardice.
He walked toward me.
“Ethan,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
He stopped in front of me, his jaw tight.
