Chapter 13 Chapter 13

Chapter 13 Chapter 13
Chapter 13
SELENE
I stood in the hallway, listening to him wrap up his call—something about quarterly reports and board meetings. When he finally hung up, he emerged from the study, loosening his tie.
"We need to discuss the gala," he said without preamble. No greeting, no asking how I was. Just straight to business.
"Alright," I said.
He moved past me into the living room, and I followed. We sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the distance between us feeling more like miles than feet.
"Grandmother has high expectations for this event," Derek began, his tone formal. "There will be major donors in attendance, board members, people whose opinions matter to the foundation. We need to present a united front."
United front. Not "we need to appear happy" or "we should enjoy the evening together." Just the bland  language of a business arrangement requiring proper optics.
"I understand," I said quietly.
"That means staying together throughout the evening. No wandering off separately. We arrive together, we leave together, and in between, we..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "We play the part of a happily married couple."
Play the part. Because that's all it was—a performance, a façade we maintained for his grandmother's benefit. The words shouldn't have hurt anymore; I should have been numb to them by now. But they still cut deep, still reminded me that our marriage was nothing but an obligation he resented.
"I can do that," I said, proud that my voice didn't shake.
"Good." He stood, clearly ready to end the conversation. "Grandmother has arranged for professional photographers. They'll want couples shots, family photos. Just smile and follow their direction."
"Derek," I said before he could leave. He paused, looking back at me with barely concealed impatience. "Is Jasmine attending?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "She's been a supporter of the foundation for years. Of course she's attending."
"With a date?"
"I don't monitor her social calendar, Selene." But his tone was defensive, and I knew I'd hit a nerve.
"I was just asking," I said mildly. "So I'm prepared."
We stared at each other across the living room, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or awareness that I knew more than I was saying. But he didn't acknowledge it, didn't offer any explanation or reassurance.
"I have work to do," he said finally. "I'll be in my study."
And just like that, he was gone, retreating to his private space where I wasn't welcome. I sat alone in the living room, listening to his study door close, and felt the walls of my cage pressing in tighter.
That night, I practiced my smile in the bathroom mirror. The wide, genuine-looking smile that showed teeth but didn't crinkle my eyes too much. The gracious, modest smile for accepting compliments. The interested, engaged smile for listening to donors drone on about their contributions. The loving, devoted smile I'd need to use when looking at Derek, pretending our marriage was everything it appeared to be.
I practiced until my face hurt, until the smiles felt natural even though nothing about them was real. This was my armor for the gala—these carefully constructed expressions that would hide the truth of my crumbling marriage, my secret pregnancy, my desperate plans to escape.
"You can do this," I told my reflection. "One night. Just get through one night."
Friday arrived with more morning sickness. I'd started keeping crackers on my nightstand, eating a few before I even sat up, hoping to settle my stomach before the worst hit. It helped, but only slightly.
Derek's assistant called with final details—the car would pick us up at six-thirty, giving us time to arrive before the other guests. Rosalie wanted family photos at seven, cocktails at seven-thirty, dinner at eight. A precisely choreographed evening where every moment was scheduled, every interaction planned.
I spent the afternoon preparing—another hair appointment to touch up the styling, a manicure, makeup trial. Each appointment felt like another layer of armor going on, another element of the costume I'd wear to play my role.
The beautician applying my makeup chatted pleasantly about the gala, about what a lovely couple Derek and I made, about how lucky I was to be married to such a successful, handsome man. I smiled and agreed, my face a mask even before she'd finished applying foundation.
Saturday morning—the day of the gala—I woke early, my stomach surprisingly settled. Maybe the baby was giving me a break, knowing I needed all my strength for what was coming.
Derek was already up, in the shower. I could hear the water running, could smell his expensive soap. For a moment, I let myself imagine an alternate reality where this morning would be different. Where he'd emerge from the bathroom and kiss me good morning, where we'd laugh together while getting ready, where he'd tell me he couldn't wait to show me off to everyone at the gala.
But that wasn't my reality. That would never be my reality.
When he finally came out, a towel wrapped around his waist, he barely glanced at me. "The car will be here at six-thirty," he said, as if I hadn't already been told this multiple times. "Don't be late."
"I won't be," I assured him.
He nodded and disappeared into his closet. I heard him moving around, selecting his tuxedo, choosing cufflinks. The sounds of a man preparing for an important evening, completely disconnected from the woman who was supposed to be his partner.
I checked on the black card one more time, running my finger over the embossed "D." My lifeline. My escape route. The physical proof that I had options, that I wasn't as trapped as I felt.
"Soon," I whispered to it. "After tonight, I'll start making real plans. I promise."
The afternoon dragged. I tried to eat but couldn't manage more than a few bites of toast. My stomach was in knots—partly from pregnancy, partly from anxiety about the evening ahead. I'd be in the same room as Derek and Jasmine, watching them pretend they weren't in love, while I pretended my marriage wasn't a sham.