Chapter 5

The night of the Architectural Guild Awards arrived, not draped in velvet, but constructed of it-a heavy, sound-dampening fabric that seemed to absorb all sincerity, leaving only the clinking of champagne flutes and the polished murmur of the city's elite. The ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton was a cavern of calculated light and false promises.

Anthony was in his element. He navigated the room not as a man walking, but as a current flowing, his hand a fixed point of pressure at the small of my back, guiding me through the eddies of conversation. I was the final, perfect detail on his blueprints, the human-scaled accessory to his grand design.

"You look breathtaking, Alex," he had murmured as we dressed, his gaze sweeping over me with the practiced appreciation of a connoisseur examining a piece he already owns. "My beautiful wife. Twenty years, and you're more beautiful than ever."

I had simply smiled, a placid arrangement of facial muscles that offered no purchase for his sentiment. I felt less like a woman than a piece of architectural rendering, flawless on the surface, with nothing behind the facade.

Before we left the house, I'd sought out Jacob in his room. He was dressed in a suit that hung awkwardly on his adolescent frame, his posture sullen and enclosed.

"You look handsome," I said, my voice gentle.

He just grunted, not looking up from the blue glare of his phone.

I sat on the edge of his bed. "Jacob, I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me." My voice was not steady; a fine tremor ran through it, the last, desperate plea from the woman who had been his mother. "If... if your father and I were to separate, who would you want to live with?"

He finally looked up, his eyes cold and appraising. He didn't hesitate. Not for a second.

"Dad, obviously," he said with a scoff. "At least he's fun. You'd probably just sit around and cry all day."

The words did not land like a blow; they were more like a solvent, dissolving the last fragile bond of maternal hope in my chest. He had rehearsed this. He had fantasized about this moment.

"I see," I whispered. The boy I had raised was gone, replaced by this cold, callous stranger who saw me as nothing more than an obstacle to his father's pleasure.

"Don't worry," he said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "You'll get used to being alone."

He stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked out of the room, leaving me in the echoing silence of his judgment.

That was it. The final incision. I took a deep, shuddering breath and stood up. The woman who walked out of that room was no longer a mother pleading for her son; she was a strategist confirming the final variable in her equation.

At the gala, I played my part. I smiled, I mingled, I accepted congratulations on my husband's behalf. And I watched.

I saw Katia arrive as I knew she would. She did not enter the room so much as take possession of a corner of it, her head turning in slow, deliberate arcs as she scanned the crowd, her presence a secret victory she believed only she and Anthony understood. She wore a dress the color of fresh blood, a violent slash of scarlet in a sea of muted tones. It was a garment designed not to be worn, but to be witnessed. Around her neck was a diamond necklace I recognized from a Tiffany's box I'd found hidden in Anthony's closet weeks ago-a gift he'd claimed was a surprise for me.

Jacob's face lit up when he saw her. He abandoned his post by the shrimp cocktail and rushed to her side, his earlier sullenness vanishing.

"Katia! You look amazing!" he gushed, hugging her with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. "Doesn't she look amazing, Dad?" he called out, waving Anthony over.

Anthony, who had been deep in conversation with a major developer, froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving behind a waxy, pallid mask. He shot Jacob a look of pure fury before composing his features into a tight, forced smile.

"Ms. Shepherd, what a pleasant surprise," he said, his voice strained. He subtly angled his body, trying to put space between himself and Katia, but Jacob was oblivious.

"Dad was just saying he hoped you could make it," Jacob announced proudly.

Katia preened, her eyes flicking to me with a look of triumphant malice. "Anthony is always so thoughtful."

The use of his first name was a deliberate, targeted strike.

Anthony's smile was a rictus of panic. He put a hand on my arm, a gesture meant to be reassuring, but the pressure of his fingers felt like the latch on a cage. "Alex, honey, you remember Jacob's counselor, Ms. Shepherd."

"Of course," I said, my voice smooth as glass. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Katia." I let my eyes drift down to the necklace. "That's a beautiful piece. It looks almost identical to one my husband bought for me."

Katia's hand flew to her neck, her smile faltering. Anthony's grip on my arm became a vise, his knuckles pressing hard against my bone.

Just then, Principal Thompson and Katia's parents, a mousy, bewildered-looking couple I'd made sure were seated at a prominent table, walked over. The trap was closing.

Katia looked like she was going to be sick. She muttered a hasty excuse about needing to find the restroom and fled, her red dress a blur of panic.

Anthony's face was ashen. "I... I should make sure our guests are comfortable," he stammered, making his own escape in the opposite direction.

I didn't need to follow him. I knew exactly what was happening. He was calming her, reassuring her, making promises as hollow as the columns in the ballroom.

I let them have their moment. I needed him composed for the main event.

I found them ten minutes later, tucked away in a service corridor behind the stage. I couldn't make out their words-they were hushed, frantic whispers from where I stood-but their bodies spoke a clear dialect of panic and deceit. I saw her shoulders heave with soundless sobs; I saw Anthony grab her arms, his face a mask of furious placation as he pulled her into a rough embrace, silencing her mouth with his own in a kiss that was not an intimacy, but an act of suppression. I didn't need to hear them. I had a clear record of it waiting for me on a tiny digital recorder I'd planted in the potted palm next to them the day before.

It was everything I needed.

I stepped back into the shadows, a ghost at the feast. I returned to the ballroom, my own breathing a slow, measured tide, my focus narrowed to the cool weight of the champagne flute in my hand. I took my seat at the head table, smoothed down my emerald dress, and waited.

The show was about to begin.