Chapter 2: The Gala
1336 Words
LILLIAN'S POV
I almost turn back three times before I even reach the entrance.
The building is glowing, all glass and light, surrounded by black cars and people dressed like they belong on magazine covers. I step out of the taxi and immediately feel wrong. Too exposed. Too much. The dress clings where nothing I own ever has. My back is bare. My chest feels tight, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
The driver looks at me twice before driving off.
I stand there, clutching my small purse, heart slamming so hard I can hear it. Everyone else seems to move easily. Confidence. Laughing. Talking. I feel like a child who wandered into the wrong classroom.
A woman in a silver dress looks me up and down, her mouth tightening. Two men near the door pause their conversation. One of them lifts a brow. The other whispers something I can’t hear.
I step inside.
The music is low. Smooth. The room smells like perfume and expensive drinks. Crystal glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls. Everywhere I look, people are beautiful and powerful and sure of themselves.
I am none of those things.
I scan the room, searching for one face.
Edward.
I didn't see him at first. Panic crawls up my throat. What if he isn’t here? What if I’ve done all this for nothing?
Then I spotted him.
He stands near the far side of the hall in a closed circle of men. Dark suits. Serious expressions. I recognize some faces from magazines. Investors. Competitors. Sharks.
Edward is speaking. His posture is relaxed. His voice is calm. He looks exactly like he always does when he’s not with me confident, controlled, important.
I stop walking.
I shouldn’t interrupt. I know that. Every instinct screams it. This is wrong. I can still leave. I can still pretend I never came.
Victoria’s voice drifts into my mind.
He won’t see you if you don’t make him look.
Sometimes men only wake up when they’re shocked.
My fingers tighten around my purse.
I take one step.
Then another.
With every step, my chest burns hotter. People start to notice me. I feel their eyes. The whispers. The curiosity.
A woman murmurs something to her friend. A man glances openly at my bare back.
Edward is still talking.
I stop just behind the group. I can hear pieces of their conversation. Numbers. Markets. Acquisitions.
This is insane, I think. I don’t belong here.
I open my mouth.
“Edward.”
It’s quiet. Soft.
No one hears.
My heart pounds harder. I swallow and try again.
“Edward.”
This time, one of the men glances at me. Then another. Their attention shifts.
Edward turns last.
His eyes land on me.
For half a second, he looks confused.
Then his expression changes.
Not relief. Not surprising.
Shock.
Then irritation.
Then something darker.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
The men fall silent.
“I…I wanted to see you,” I say. My voice sounds too loud in my own ears. “You didn’t answer my messages.”
“This is not the place,” he says sharply.
a
“I just thought…”
“Lillian.” His jaw tightens. “Leave.”
My face burns. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Not now.”
“I’m your wife,” I blurted. “I shouldn’t need an appointment.”
The air shifts.
One of the men clears his throat. Another looks away. Someone behind them lifts a phone slightly, pretending not to.
Edward steps closer. “You are interrupting a meeting.”
“I didn’t know it was private,” I lied. “I just… I wanted to surprise you.”
“This is not a surprise,” he says. “This is inappropriate.”
My throat tightens. “Why are you always like this?”
His eyes flash. “Like what?”
“Cold,” I say before I can stop myself. “Distant. You never look at me. You never talk to me. I live in your house and feel like a guest.”
A murmur moves through the small crowd forming around us.
Edward’s voice drops. “Stop talking.”
“I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”
“This is not about how you feel.”
“When is it ever?” I ask. “Do you even see me?”
One of the men smirks faintly. Another checks his watch. The phones are no longer subtle.
Edward’s lips press into a thin line. “Apologies, gentlemen,” he says stiffly, turning slightly toward them. “Give me a moment.”
He grips my arm.
Not hard enough to bruise.
Hard enough to hurt.
He pulls me a few steps away, but we are still very much in sight.
“What are you wearing?” he demands under his breath.
My chest rises sharply. “You don’t like it?”
“This is not a nightclub.”
“I wanted to look nice for you.”
“You look like a distraction.”
“I am your wife.”
“Not right now,” he snaps.
The words slice.
“Why are you ashamed of me?” I whisper.
He lets out a short, humorless breath. “Because you don’t understand boundaries.”
“I understand that you don’t want me,” I say.
“That is not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” My eyes sting. “Because it feels like you erased me.”
“Lower your voice.”
“No,” I say, shaking. “I spent years being quiet. I spent years waiting. I thought maybe if you saw me differently…”
“Differently how?” he asks.
I gesture helplessly at myself. “As a woman. Not furniture.”
His nostrils flare. “Who put this in your head?”
“No one,” I lied.
“You are humiliating me.”
The word knocks the air from my lungs. “I would never want to do that.”
“And yet here you are.”
“I just wanted you to look at me.”
“And now everyone is.”
Tears blur my vision. “Is that so terrible?”
“Yes,” he says. “Because they are not looking with respect.”
“I don’t care about them,” I say. “I care about you.”
“You should have thought of that before walking in here dressed like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re begging.”
The word feels like a slap.
“I am not begging,” I whisper.
His grip tightens slightly. “Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save my marriage.”
“There is nothing to save,” he says quietly. “There is only my reputation, and you are damaging it.”
My stomach drops. “I am not your enemy.”
“Right now, you are my problem.”
A man laughs softly nearby. Another raises his phone higher.
Edward’s eyes flicker toward them. Something inside him snaps.
“Excuse me,” he says coldly to the group, releasing my arm. He steps back into the circle. “Let’s continue.”
“Edward,” I say urgently.
He doesn’t turn.
I reach out, touching his sleeve.
He pulls away.
The rejection is loud.
“You are not my wife tonight,” he says without looking at me. “You are my mistake.”
Then he faces the men again.
Conversation resumes.
Laughter follows.
The circle closes.
I am no longer inside it.
I stand there, exposed, shaking, my hand still lifted where he left it.
Cameras
flash.
Someone whispers my name.
Someone else says this.
I don’t know how long I stand there.
Seconds.
Years.
I only know that whatever I thought I could fix… I have just broken.
And this time, there is no way to pretend it can be undone.
- Writer
