The Gala
1533 Words
Laura
The morning after Andrew’s call, I woke to the sound of metal hangers scraping against each other.
David was already up—half-dressed, half-distant, rummaging through his closet like a man late for a life he didn’t invite me into.
Sunlight streamed through the curtains in soft ribbons, warming the sheets beside me. And for a moment—just one foolish, fleeting moment—I thought he might slide back into bed, kiss the inside of my wrist like he used to, whisper something selfish and sweet.
But the warmth of that night—two nights ago, when he reached for me like he meant it—had already drained into the silence between us.
I sat up slowly, pulling the comforter around my legs like armor. “Morning,” I offered, my voice low, tentative.
“Morning.” He didn’t look at me—just buttoned his shirt with clinical efficiency, cuff by cuff, like affection would slow him down.
“You’re heading to the office?” I asked.
He nodded, eyes on his reflection now. “Andrew wants to go over final details for the gala.”
The word gala dropped into my stomach like a stone.
Of course. The gala. The next installment in our performance.
I tried to sound casual. “Do you think it’ll be… a big deal?”
He finally met my gaze, but it wasn’t reassurance I saw—just calculation. “Probably. It’s mostly about optics. Just stay close to me and it’ll be fine.”
That last line—stay close to me—was meant to comfort.
It didn’t.
It sounded like a tactical maneuver. A polite leash.
Not a lifeline.
I nodded anyway. That was our thing lately. Pretend it’s enough.
—
Later that day, just as I was slipping on my coat to leave for work, David called out behind me.
“Wait.”
I turned. He was standing by the front closet, holding up a long garment bag like it was nothing more than a dry cleaning errand.
“What’s this?” I asked, blinking.
“For the gala,” he said, like the words should mean something. “I had my assistant pick it out. Figured you’d need something.”
I took the bag without a word. It was lighter than I expected—sleek, black, impersonal. Like everything else between us lately.
Not I wanted you to feel beautiful.
Not I saw this and thought of you.
Just logistics. Just duty. Just David, doing the right thing by remote control.
I murmured a thank you and walked out the door.
But all the way to work, the bag sat beside me on the seat like a stranger’s coat I’d been told to hold—elegant, expensive, and not mine.
—
I opened the bag that night like I was unwrapping a stranger’s expectations.
Inside was a black gown—elegant, sleek, and safe. The kind of dress that whispered sophistication without ever daring to scream identity. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen for myself. It was tasteful, yes. Appropriate. But also… anonymous.
Still, I smoothed my hand over the fabric and nodded to no one in particular.
The gala crept up faster than I expected. Suddenly, it was here.
As I zipped myself into the dress, my reflection blinked back at me from the mirror—a woman I barely recognized. The gown hugged all the right places, but no amount of perfect fit could erase the feeling that I didn’t belong in the frame.
I looked polished, poised. But inside?
I felt like a ghost draped in satin.
David, on the other hand, looked every bit the part. His tuxedo fit like it had been tailored not just for his body, but for his legacy. He was the Thompson heir in every stitch.
He barely looked at me as I stepped into the room. But there—there it was—a flicker of something in his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or relief that I wouldn’t embarrass him.
“Ready?” he asked as we got into the car, his tone neutral.
I forced a smile so tight it hurt. “As I’ll ever be.”
And just like that, we drove into the night. Two perfect silhouettes in formalwear. And miles apart.
—
The venue sparkled like a cathedral of excess—crystal chandeliers dripping with light, golden moldings tracing every corner like the frame of a painting. The air smelled faintly of money and perfume, and the laughter echoing off the marble floors felt too polished to be real.
David fit into it like he was born for this kind of room. He wasn’t just comfortable—he belonged. Every glance he gave, every nod, was returned with deference. Meanwhile, I clung to his arm like an afterthought, painfully aware of how many eyes were watching.
Not because they saw me, but because I was his.
We stopped to greet a group of his father’s business associates—men in tailored suits who spoke in mergers and percentages, women in couture with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Their conversation flowed like a current I was never meant to swim in.
I nodded and smiled where appropriate, but it felt like my mouth was borrowed. Like I’d learned the etiquette by rote, not by right.
“Your wife is lovely,” one of the women said, tilting her head. Her smile was like the edge of a wine glass—delicate and dangerous. “And so accomplished. It’s refreshing to see someone outside the usual circles.”
My spine stiffened. I knew what she meant. Outsider. Not one of us.
I turned to David, silently begging for a lifeline—for him to squeeze my hand or shoot back a clever rebuttal in my defense. But his face was marble. Smooth. Impassive.
Nothing.
And that nothing was louder than any insult.
The air thickened around me. The room grew smaller, the chandelier light too sharp. I needed space. I needed air. I needed something that didn’t demand I apologize for existing.
Without thinking, I drifted toward the edge of the ballroom—toward a grand piano that sat unused beneath a soft golden spotlight. The bench creaked beneath me as I sat.
My fingers hovered over the keys, uncertain.
And then… they moved.
Not to impress. Not to perform.
But to survive.
A melody emerged—simple, aching, mine.
I didn’t mean to sing. But the words found me anyway.
“I’m blue,
Everything feels empty now without you,
It’s hard to smile when you’re not with me…”
I barely recognized my own voice. It sounded raw, naked, like a letter I forgot to send.
When the last note faded, silence rushed in to take its place. I looked up, startled.
Eyes.
So many eyes.
Polite smiles. Quiet murmurs.
And suddenly I felt stupid. Like a child crashing an opera. I stood too quickly, smoothing my dress like armor.
What had I been thinking?
David approached, his expression unreadable.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice low.
“I know,” I whispered. “I just needed… something.”
He didn’t ask what. He didn’t reach for me.
Later, as dinner was served and the scent of veal and truffle filled the air, nausea curled in my gut. The lights pulsed too bright. The voices blurred.
“I don’t feel well,” I whispered, touching his arm. “Can we go home?”
He studied me—briefly, like an x-ray scan—and nodded.
“Of course. Let me grab your coat.”
—
The drive home was silent. I leaned my head against the window, my hands resting on my stomach as the tension in my chest slowly eased.
Back at home, I changed into a loose T-shirt and curled up on the couch. The nausea had passed, but the heaviness in my heart remained.
David sat on the edge of the couch, his face tired. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said softly. “But I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.
He hesitated for a moment, like he wanted to say something, but then he stood and disappeared into the bedroom.
The silence was unbearable. I grabbed my phone and dialed Emma’s number.
She answered after a few rings, her face illuminated by soft lamplight. “Laura? It’s late. Are you okay?”
“I just… I needed someone to talk to,” I said, my voice breaking.
I recounted the night—the tension, the embarrassment, the way David had seemed so indifferent.
Emma listened quietly before speaking. “Laura, you’re not out of place. That’s his world, not yours. It’s okay to feel like this.”
“It’s not just the gala,” I admitted. “It’s everything. I feel like I’m not enough for him, like I’ll never measure up.”
Emma’s gaze softened. “You don’t have to measure up. You’re already more than enough. But… have you considered that you might be pregnant?”
- Writer
