All eyes turned to me. Seventeen pairs of eyes scrutinized me at a single glance. The red dress was a misjudgment. The emerald earrings, insignificant. And me… a mere accessory, until Travis arrived, dressed in a far more impressive outfit.
Henri led me to my chair at the long table—not in the place of honor, reserved for a VIP, nor next to Travis’s desperately empty seat, but three seats away. On one side was Bradley Chen’s accompanist, whose name no one gave me; on the other, an assistant who barely looked up from her phone.
Opposite me sat Amber Lawson. She adjusted her neckline with calculated precision, her smile tight and knowing. Her perfume was unmistakable: the same French scent that had lingered on Travis’s jacket. It probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“Travis asked me to oversee the organization of your big party,” she said cheerfully, raising her voice. “He’s always so thoughtful. He always thinks of others.”
The first course arrived: oysters placed on crushed ice like delicate tombstones. Marcus, already unsteady after several martinis, raised his glass.
“Before Travis joined us, I think we can all agree,” he began, swaying slightly, “Savannah, you are proof that Travis is the most generous man among us.”
Laughter erupted around the table, bright and clear.
Patricia leaned forward. “Savannah, speaking of generosity, you should really join our philanthropy committee. We need someone who understands how the poorest people live – for more authenticity.”
“Teachers are kind of like high-class babysitters, aren’t they?” added Marcus, casually waving his glass. “No offense, Savannah, but what do you do all day? Make sure no one eats glue?”
“She teaches the alphabet,” William Rothschild interjected sharply. “Important work, I imagine. Someone has to do it.”
“Perhaps Travis could declare his salary as a charitable donation,” Patricia suggested theatrically. “Would that work, Bradley? You’re the tax expert.”
Bradley looked up from his phone just long enough to manage a smile. “Only if she’s considered a dependent.”
Every remark was surgically precise. It wasn’t spontaneous; it was rehearsed. I might not have been the primary target, but I was certainly the one sitting there that evening. Their mockery had a rhythm, a kind of team game, and Travis’s empty chair hinted at an open hunt.
When he finally appeared—forty minutes late, reeking of whiskey and a familiar scent—the room erupted in cheers. He avoided my gaze. He ignored the event. Instead, he launched into a theatrical tale of a client meeting that had supposedly dragged on forever, a deal that would make everyone involved rich.
“My apologies for the delay,” he announced gravely. “You know how it goes when large sums of money are involved.”
He sat down at the end of the table, and Amber immediately leaned towards him to whisper something that made him laugh.
Sitting there, invisible at my own party, I watched my husband openly flirt while his friends resumed their show.
The main courses arrived — exorbitantly priced steaks. Travis’s gaze finally fell on me, lingering on my red dress with barely concealed irritation.
“Bold choice, Savannah. I thought we had agreed on something more appropriate.”
“It’s my birthday,” I said softly. “I wanted to wear something that reflected who I am.”
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