Chapter 3: "Fire Her."
609 Words
I shouldn't have been surprised that Emmy was at the gala.
But the dress—that surprised me.
It was black. Strapless. Hand-beaded Valentino, custom-fitted to my measurements six months ago, back when Alex still bothered to remember my birthday. I'd never worn it. It had been hanging in the closet in a garment bag with my name embroidered on the zipper.
Emmy wore it like she'd been born in it.
She stood near the champagne bar, red lips, perfect posture, accepting compliments from people who assumed she was Mrs. Anderson. And when she spotted Alex across the room, she lit up—this practiced, radiant smile that caught the light like a diamond catching fire.
Then she saw me. The smile flickered. Just for a second.
Good.
"Darling, I'll be right back." Alex's hand was already leaving my waist. "Emmy shouldn't be here—I told her this was family only. Let me handle it."
I watched him cross the room. Watched him lean in close to Emmy, murmur something, his hand on her elbow. Watched her eyes go wide and wet on command, her lower lip trembling.
"I thought you were joking," she said, loud enough for the nearest table to hear. "I didn't think you'd actually leave me behind."
Leave me behind. Like she was the wife.
Alex didn't correct her. He didn't step back, didn't drop her arm, didn't turn to look at me standing alone by the entrance in a dress that wasn't custom-made and heels that were starting to hurt.
A woman beside me whispered to her husband: "Who's the one by the door? She looks lost."
I wasn't lost. I was watching my marriage end in real time, and I was calmer than I'd ever been.
Alex's business partner found me first. "Alex actually brought you tonight! It's been ages."
That's how the room learned I existed. The whispers shifted direction like wind.
Emmy pivoted instantly. "Oh—Mrs. Anderson." She pressed her hands together, eyes round with theatrical horror. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea this was your dress. Alex's assistant told me it was for the office wardrobe, I never would have—"
She let the sentence hang. Every word was a scalpel. Alex gave me your things. Alex brings me instead of you. Alex and I have a system you're not part of.
I looked at her. Then I looked at Alex.
"Fire her."
The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that has ears.
Alex's jaw tightened. Emmy's mascara was already running—on cue, on schedule, exactly where she wanted it.
"Darling, let's not make a scene—"
"You're right." I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. My hand was perfectly steady. "Fire her at home. I don't care where."
Alex stared at me for a long beat. Then, with three hundred of New York's wealthiest watching, he nodded stiffly. "Emmy. We'll discuss your transition on Monday."
Emmy's eyes went flat. Just for a heartbeat, the mask slipped, and I saw what was underneath—cold, calculating fury. Then the tears came back, and she was nodding, sniffling, the wronged innocent.
"Of course." Her voice was a whisper. "Whatever you need, Mr. Anderson."
She wouldn't be fired. I knew that. Alex would find a reason to keep her within a week. He always did.
But tonight, for sixty seconds, I'd made him choose me in public. And that—pathetically—was the most attention he'd given me in months.
I drained my champagne and set the glass on a passing tray.
Tomorrow. I leave tomorrow.
[END CHAPTER — 588 words]
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