“Honey,” Janet said softly, “when was the last time Travis did something just for you? Not to network. Not to make appearances. Just because it mattered to you?”
I had no answer. The truth seemed too insignificant and humiliating to say aloud. Every gift, every outing, every “romantic” dinner was carefully orchestrated to serve his professional ambitions or social climbing. The tennis bracelet he gave me last Christmas only came to light after Marcus’s wife noticed my modest jewelry at the company gala. The weekend in the Hamptons was tied to a client’s daughter’s wedding. Even our anniversary dinner conveniently brought together two potential investors, “by chance,” at the same restaurant.
After classes that day, I went home to get ready and deliberately chose a dress that Travis hadn’t approved of. It was red, knee-length – a dress I had bought before our wedding, back when I chose my clothes because they made me feel alive, not because they reflected his success.
Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I applied my grandmother’s coral lipstick, the shade she wore every day of her adult life. “For my brave daughter,” I murmured to my reflection as I fastened her emerald earrings. They were small, probably cheaper than a parking space at Château Blanc, but they were authentic.
She had worn them during the Great Depression, when my grandfather died, and during the cancer that eventually took him. “Put them on when you need courage,” she had told me.
And tonight, surrounded by Travis’s colleagues who would unmask me while silently assessing his fortune, I would need all the courage these little stones could give me.
On my way home from school, I passed the Riverside Country Club, its impeccably trimmed hedges lined up like disciplined soldiers under the September sky. My membership card lay in my wallet, granting me access to a world that would never truly accept me, even though Travis insisted I attend the monthly spouses’ luncheons. The next one was tomorrow, and just thinking about it made my stomach clench.
Lunch arrived in unexpected heat, my department store dress sticking to my skin as I stepped through the club’s heavy oak doors. The dining room was set with round tables draped in cream-colored linen, each centerpiece an exquisitely arranged bouquet of white roses, undoubtedly more expensive than my weekly groceries.
Patricia Rothschild stood near the bar, her Hermès bag gleaming, and was gesturing wildly to Jennifer Cross. They were laughing about something on Jennifer’s phone.
I sat down at their table, exactly as Travis had instructed. Patricia’s husband ran a hedge fund that Travis desperately coveted, and Jennifer’s family connections extended throughout the northeast corridor like a network of invisible keys.
Their conversation stopped as I approached, and their smiles froze on their faces.
“Savannah, how lovely she is,” Patricia murmured, kissing my ear. “That dress is so… cheerful.”
“Target?” Jennifer interjected in a soft voice, as if to express her admiration.
“Nordstrom Rack, actually,” I replied evenly, refusing to be discouraged.
“How wise!” said Patricia, in a tone that suggested she would rather wrap herself in burlap than shop at a discount store.
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