Clever when she chose.
Always beautiful.
And having an affair with my husband.
She wore red silk.
Camden once told me red looked desperate.
Apparently, that judgment applied only to me.
My place card sat at Table Nineteen beside the service doors.
“Elena Royce — Community Relations.”
Nothing identifying me as his wife.
Nothing acknowledging six years of acquisitions, reorganizations, sleepless launches, investor dinners, funerals, and countless sacrifices Camden now claimed as his accomplishments.
I studied the card briefly.
Then I took my seat.
Camden expected precisely that, because my willingness to endure discomfort without complaining had always made his life easier.
Silent compliance.
Once, he’d loved that quality.
“You’re the only quiet thing in my life,” he used to whisper when we were newly married.
Then, quietness meant security.
Later, usefulness.
Finally, weakness.
At 9:20, the lights lowered.
Camden mounted the stage, smiling as though his future were guaranteed.
