When My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

The Metropolitan Museum of Art glittered like a jewelry box turned inside out. Chandeliers threw light across marble floors. Women in gowns worth more than cars drifted past sculptures older than the country. Waiters in black moved through the crowd with trays of champagne that cost more per bottle than I used to spend on groceries.

I stood behind Dutton's wheelchair and waited.

"Sarai, champagne," he said without looking at me.

I crossed to the nearest waiter, took two flutes, and brought them back. Dutton accepted one. Bethany took the other from my hand and smiled at a passing couple.

"Dutton, you look wonderful tonight," the woman said. She was older, dripping diamonds, her face tight from work that was supposed to look natural.

"Thank you, Margaret," Dutton said. His smile was warm. Public. "You know Bethany, of course."

"Of course." Margaret air-kissed Bethany's cheeks. "You two are just radiant together."

Bethany laughed. It was her warm laugh, the one she saved for rooms like this. "You're too kind."

Margaret's eyes slid over me for half a second, then away. I was furniture. Useful, forgettable furniture that held purses and fetched drinks.

I stepped back and let them talk.

Across the hall, I caught sight of my mother. Angela stood with a circle of women from the arts council, her posture perfect, her dress a deep emerald that photographed beautifully. She saw me. Her gaze moved past without stopping.

I looked down at my own dress. Black. Simple. Expensive enough not to embarrass anyone, plain enough not to draw attention. I had learned how to dress like a shadow.

"Sarai."

I turned. Bethany stood close, too close, her smile bright and sharp.

"Can you hold this?" She pressed her champagne flute into my already-occupied hand. "I need to say hello to the Vanderbilts."

I held both glasses. Bethany moved into the crowd, her laugh carrying back like music.

I stood there with two champagne flutes and Dutton's wheelchair behind me and the weight of a thousand eyes that never quite looked directly at me. This was my life now. This was what five years bought.

No. This was what five years of lies bought.

I felt someone watching. I turned my head slightly and found him—Elias Ward, standing near one of the marble columns, a glass in his hand but his attention entirely on me. He was in a navy suit. His expression was calm, controlled, but something in his eyes was not calm at all.

I looked away first.

"Oh my God, Sarai!"

Bethany was suddenly right there, too close, moving too fast. Her hand came up like she was reaching to hug me and her body tilted forward and the champagne flute in her other hand swung wide and shattered against my palm.

Pain—bright and immediate. Glass bit into skin. The stem drove into the soft flesh below my thumb. Blood welled up, shockingly red against my pale skin, and ran down my wrist onto the white marble floor.

Bethany gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no. Oh, Sarai, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Her eyes were wide. Concerned. Glittering.

I looked down at my hand. Blood dripped onto my black dress. It didn't show. That was good. I had chosen well.

"I'm fine," I said.

People were turning now. A small crowd forming. Murmurs rippling outward like stones in water.

"Sarai." Dutton's voice, flat and cold. "Clean yourself up. You're making a scene."

I looked at him. He was not looking at my hand. He was looking at the people watching us. His jaw was tight. Embarrassed.

"Of course," I said. "Sorry."

I turned toward the restroom. My mother stepped into my path.

"Sarai." Her voice was low, hard. Her hand closed around my uninjured arm and pulled me aside, into the shadow of a marble archway. "What is wrong with you?"

"I—"

Her hand came up fast. The slap cracked across my cheek, sharp and loud. My head snapped to the side. Heat bloomed across my face.

"You always have to make everything about yourself," Angela hissed.

I tasted copper. I had bitten my tongue.

Flashes went off. Cameras. Someone's phone. The society columnists would have this by morning.

I stood very still. Blood ran down my hand. My mother's handprint burned on my cheek. The crowd watched with the polite, hungry interest of people who would talk about this for weeks.

I did not cry.

"Excuse me," I said quietly.

I walked to the restroom. The door swung shut behind me, cutting off the noise. The sudden silence felt like falling.

I stood at the sink and ran cold water over my hand. Glass fragments washed away pink. The cut was deep but clean. I wrapped it in paper towels—white, then red, then white again.

I looked up at the mirror.

My face looked back. Pale. Composed. My mother's handprint fading from red to pink across my cheek. My eyes were dry.

I studied myself for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

It was a small smile. Precise. Perfect. The kind of smile that said everything was fine, I was fine, there was nothing to see here.

I practiced it twice more. Then I turned and walked back into the gala.

The crowd had moved on. Dutton and Bethany were talking to someone important. My mother stood with her circle, laughing at something. No one looked at me as I crossed the floor.

Except one person.

Elias Ward stood exactly where he had been before. His glass was still full. His expression was still controlled. But his knuckles were white where he gripped the stem, and something in his face looked like barely contained fury.

I walked past him without stopping.

I had work to do.