“Of course,” I replied calmly. “I simply found it magnificent.”
I took a sip of water. “I’ve also thought about giving private lessons. Just a few hours a week. To earn some pocket money.”
The change was immediate. The color spread up his neck to the roots of his hair. The vein in his temple was visibly throbbing.
“My wife doesn’t do odd jobs like an hourly employee,” he retorted sharply. “What are people going to think? That I’m incapable of providing for my own family?”
“It was just an idea,” I said. “I love teaching, and some parents have asked me…”
“No.” He set down his wine glass with a sharp click that made the liquid slosh. “That’s precisely why Vivien is helping you. You don’t understand how things work in my world, in our world. These little choices you overlook? They have repercussions for me. For my ability to run my household.”
He stood up, abandoning his half-finished meal. “I invited the right people to your birthday dinner. Important people. People who can inspire us. The least you can do is behave properly and not embarrass me by talking about tutoring like some desperate suburban housewife.”
After he left, the house felt heavy. His untouched plate was cooling on the table, his words still lingering like smoke from a long-burning fire.
At 6:30 a.m., I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my grandmother’s emerald earrings. My hands remained steady, despite the knots in my stomach. The red dress I had chosen contrasted beautifully with my pale skin—a subtle act of rebellion against the black dress Travis had selected.
My phone vibrated.
I’m late. Let’s meet there.
Of course. Making a grand entrance mattered more than accompanying his wife on her birthday.
I ordered an Uber, not daring to drive, and watched the city slip by in streaks of light as we approached the Château Blanc. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“A big party?” he asked.
“My birthday dinner.”
“Happy birthday,” he said kindly. “Your husband must have prepared something special.”
I smiled, my expression as fragile as glass. “Something like that.”
The White Castle dominated the street corner like a sanctuary dedicated to a world that would never claim me. Valets, better dressed than most of the men I knew, opened the doors for the women who walked by as if the sidewalk existed only for them.
Henri, the head waiter, greeted me with that polite, distant expression reserved for guests present by association rather than by affiliation. “Mrs. Mitchell, your guests are beginning to arrive. This way, please.”
The private lounge echoed with laughter and the crystalline clinking of glasses. Marcus Sterling, the center of attention, animatedly recounted the story of a client who had dared to haggle over his fees. Jennifer Cross, lounging nonchalantly on a velvet sofa, captured the evening for her forty thousand followers. Patricia Rothschild held court near the bar, her diamonds sparkling under the spotlights like a contained threat.
“There she is!” cried Marcus in an exaggeratedly jovial tone. “Our party queen has arrived!”
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