Snubbed Wife

Peonies had bloomed open two days too early, their petals scattering on the marble island like small pink snowdrifts. Victoria Lang gave a stem a half-inch nudge to the left, stepped back, and concluded the arrangement finally looked accidentally done in the way she used to love. Everything in the penthouse now was deliberate—an orchid, a coffee-table monograph, a silence. Rose-gold light had been smeared into the dreadfully beautiful Hudson below the sixty-fourth-floor windows. Friday-evening traffic threaded southward like a necklace of red and white beads. She observed a blue pulse weave among the lanes and wondered what it was racing toward, what commonplace disaster. The chime sounded from the elevator. Julian Lang walked into the foyer, jacket slung over his arm, still carrying with him the chill of the city, like wind and perfume. He moved with slow assurance, as though he believed every space had been designed for him to enter. It was something that had crystallized in him over four long years since LangTech's IPO had minted him a billionaire; now it took harder form, increasingly needing less excuse. Victoria wiped her hands on a dish towel and forced through the smile she had practiced in front of her mirror. "You're home early." "Investors flew back to Menlo," he said, loosening his tie, his eyes drifting past her toward the bar. "Board dinner is next week. I need a drink." She followed him through steel and glass. Their steps echoed around them like polite coughs. "Did the courier arrive?" she asked. Julian poured out some Yamazaki 25 whiskey. "Gray envelope? Van Klooster seal? Yeah, it's in my briefcase." Victoria felt the surge of a heartbeat. The New Year's gala at the Van Klooster Institute represented the most photographed night on the Eastern Seaboard: an aquarium for the super-rich, with every move cataloged by paparazzi staked out on boats in the harbor. They had been invited every year since the second funding round, but the last time she attended was three years before, when Julian had begun to suggest—gently at first—that she stay "behind the curtain." She opened his Italian leather case and lifted the card. Heavy stock with beveled edges and a raised crest. Inside, copperplate script: Mr. Julian Lang & spouse Black & White Masquerade 31 December, 8 p.m. Aboard the S.S. Sybaris, Pier 60 She traced the ampersand with her thumb. "We haven't been out together since the spring benefit." Julian drank, eyes closed, enjoying the whisky more than the conversation. "We'll see." The words settled like a dull stitch. Victoria set the invitation down. "What does that mean?" He crossed to the window, profile illuminated by neon signage across the river. "It means I haven't decided whether bringing you is optimal." Optimal. The word slid between them like a knife. She crossed her arms. "What do you mean by optimal?" A sigh escaped him, a small sound full of barely suppressed irritation. "Van Klooster is announcing a quantum computing consortium. Half the board wants me as keynote. Optimal means projecting stability, vision, momentum. Not…" He waved his glass in her general direction, a shrug that somehow encompassed her worn jeans, her university sweatshirt, and the pencil skewered through the knot of unbrushed hair since breakfast. "Not me," she finished for him. "Don't be dramatic." "I'm your wife." "Exactly. Spouses are optics. You know that." Wasted words yet again. She felt the old anger-involving prosaic things and even volcanic-then shove it back. Anger had never worked on Julian; it only worked through data. "I built half your decks," she said softly. "I ghostwrote the philanthropy speech that lands you on that Time cover. I moderated that panel Sequoia approached you. Such things were not optics; those were revenue.'' Shoulders shrugged. "Different arena. Branding this is." "Am I off-brand?" He faced her fully now, with the city glittering behind him like a shareholder graph. "You're fine for boards. Not red carpet." The sentence hung, complete, surgical. Victoria felt her cheeks burn. The early years came to mind; Julian in borrowed tuxedo, proud to parade her at Kennedy Center galas, bragging to anyone who listened about how his girlfriend painted enormous portraits no one could afford yet. And how he used to tug her into alcoves just to kiss her, reckless, certain the world would forgive them anything. She lifted her chin. "So I stay at home like the family dog?" "Sure. If you want to dramatize it." He placed the empty glass beside the invitation. "I'll tell Van Klooster's office that you're jet-lagged. They won't care." He started toward the stairs. "Julian." He stopped suddenly. "Say it plainly," she said. "Say, 'I don't want to be seen with you.'" A flicker crossed his face- annoyance or maybe shame-but eventually it settled down into the slick detachment that had made him such a killer negotiator. "I can't walk into that ballroom with someone who looks... ordinary. Tonight of all nights. Sorry." Ordinary. The word was a paper cut-small, precise, and disproportionately painful. He disappeared upstairs. A moment later she heard the shower, the hum of expensive plumbing, the gush of water hot enough to scald away conscience. Victoria stood alone beneath the track lighting that cost more than most people buy cars. She stared at the peonies, at the half-empty tumbler leaving rings on the quartz, at the invitation that suddenly felt radioactive. Ordinary. She walked to the guest powder room and studied herself in the mirror. Auburn curls escaping the pencil, freckles across the bridge of her nose, the faint parentheses around her mouth that appeared the year Julian stopped laughing at her jokes. She looked-she realized-like the woman she had always been. The woman he once claimed had catapulted him out of sterile cubicles of a Somerville incubator and into the impossible future. She yanked the pencil free. Hair cascaded past her shoulders, silver threads glinting like wires. She leaned closer to the glass. Behind her reflection she saw the life they had assembled: Italian fixtures, museum-quality art, a refrigerator that texted the grocer when almond milk ran low. A life curated down to the last detail-except for her. The shower shut off. In the hush she became aware of her own heartbeat, that small determined drum from which she used to draw all-nighters at RISD, convinced that greatness was a matter of stamina, lay in waiting. Then she returned to the kitchen and opened the trash compactor, sweeping the peonies inside. The flowers bruised instantly, bleeding pink onto stainless steel, and with that she pressed the button; growling, the machine swallowed them. Drawers opened and closed in the second story. Julian was choosing what to wear to a party she would not attend. Victoria emptied the last of the Yamazaki, swallowed it, scorched inwardly, and carried the invitation to her studio at the far end of the penthouse-a place Julian never entered because "the smell of turpentine gives me migraines." Inside, dust motes drifted in projector light. Canvases leaned against walls like shy guests. She flicked on the work lamp, snatched a charcoal stick, and slashed a thick black line across a pristine sheet. Then another. And another. Soon the page bled a storm of angles. Her phone buzzed-i********: notification: @StyleGoddess feed updated. She swiped absently. A photograph filled the screen: Ingrid de la Cruz, celebrity stylist, standing beside a pop star who had metamorphosed from awkward YouTuber to Met Gala deity. Caption: "From invisible to inevitable-bookings open for December miracles." Victoria stared at the image until pixels blurred. Miracle. She hated the word; it sounded like surrender. Yet her thumb moved on its own, tapping the contact button. A chat window opened. She typed: "Is it possible to book a consult before New Year's?" Three dots pulsed. Then: "Miracles cost. Do you have the stomach for it?" Victoria glanced at the closed door, imagining Julian knotting his tie, rehearsing the smile he would give investors while she stayed home ordinary. She typed: "Money is not the problem. Courage might be." Ingrid replied: "Courage I can work with. 9 a.m. tomorrow. Bring your insecurities in a shopping bag." Victoria set the phone down, heart sprinting. She looked at the charcoal storm she had birthed, then at the invitation lying on the paint-splattered table. She picked up a jar of gesso, dipped a wide brush, and painted over the black lines until nothing remained but white possibility. Outside, the city kept moving, indifferent. Inside, a decision took shape-quite, lethal, dazzling. Tomorrow she would begin.