At home, he called me oversensitive.
At work, he called me unfocused.
Behind closed doors, he told me I embarrassed him by acting as though my opinions carried weight.
Then he slept with Sloane and assumed I didn’t know.
I rose, conscious that hundreds of people were now watching to see whether I would lose control.
The ballroom grew stiller.
I wore a black satin dress Camden had once called too plain for a CEO’s wife.
For once, I appreciated it.
He had nothing visible to ridicule.
My hands weren’t shaking.
I wore no showy jewelry.
My makeup remained intact.
Only me.
His smile stiffened.
“Elena,” he said gently into the microphone, “we can discuss the details privately.”
I faced him.
“You chose to announce it publicly.”
His jaw tensed.
Whispers traveled through the ballroom.
I’d disrupted his performance.
“Elena.”
There it was again.
My name carried its familiar warning.
