Chapter 17 Chapter 17
Chapter 17
SELENE
And once, just once, I caught the look on Derek's face when he thought no one was watching. Jasmine had turned to respond to someone at her table, her profile illuminated by candlelight, and the expression that crossed Derek's face was so raw, so full of longing and pain and desperate want, that I had to look away.
That's what love looked like. That's what I would never have from him.
I excused myself quietly, murmuring something about the restroom to Rosalie. Derek barely noticed my departure, his attention already drifting back to table three.
The ladies' room was blessedly empty, a haven of marble and soft lighting. I locked myself in a stall and let the tears come, pressing my hand over my mouth to muffle the sounds.
This was unbearable. Sitting next to Derek, playing the perfect wife, while he openly pined for another woman. Watching him look at Jasmine the way I'd dreamed he might someday look at me. Knowing that every smile he gave me tonight was calculated, every touch was for show, every word was part of the performance.
My hand moved to my stomach, to the small life growing there. "I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry your father doesn't love us. But I promise you, I'll give you better than this. I swear it."
I heard the bathroom door open, voices filtering in. I quickly wiped my eyes, fixed my makeup as best I could, and emerged from the stall.
Two women stood at the mirror, touching up their lipstick. They glanced at me, and I saw recognition flicker in their eyes. Mrs. Sterling. The perfect wife. I smiled politely and moved to the sink, washing my hands while they continued their conversation.
"Did you see the way Derek Sterling looks at Jasmine Chen?" one of them said in a stage whisper. "If I didn't know better, I'd think they were the married couple."
My hands froze in the water.
"Shh, that's his wife right there," the other woman hissed.
"Oh, I know. I'm just saying, there's definitely something there. The way they keep looking at each other across the room? Come on."
They left quickly, embarrassed at being overheard, but the damage was done. Other people had noticed. Other people could see what I'd been desperately pretending didn't exist.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup was smudged from crying, my eyes red-rimmed despite my best efforts to hide it. I looked like exactly what I was—a woman at the end of her rope, clinging to the shreds of her dignity.
I repaired the damage as best I could, touching up my concealer and reapplying lipstick with shaking hands. Then I stood there, gripping the edge of the marble counter, and gave myself a stern talking to.
"You can do this," I told my reflection. "A few more hours. Just get through a few more hours, and then you never have to do this again."
The black card was in my clutch, a constant reminder that escape was possible. After tonight, I'd start making concrete plans. I'd call that number, claim the money the mysterious stranger was holding for me, and figure out how to disappear.
But first, I had to get through the rest of this gala.
I returned to the ballroom with my shoulders squared, my smile firmly in place. Dessert was being served—an elaborate chocolate creation that looked more like art than food. Derek glanced up as I slid back into my seat.
"Where were you?" he asked quietly.
"Restroom," I said simply.
He nodded and returned his attention to his plate. No concern about whether I was alright, no question about why I'd been gone so long. Just acceptance that I'd fulfilled my basic biological needs and returned to continue the performance.
After dessert came the speeches. Rosalie took the stage first, talking about the foundation's mission, its accomplishments over the past year, its goals for the future. She was an excellent speaker—engaging, passionate, persuasive. The crowd hung on her every word.
Then came the fundraising portion of the evening—an auction for various luxury items and experiences. A week at a villa in Tuscany. A private jet trip to Paris. A rare vintage wine collection. The bids climbed into the tens and hundreds of thousands, wealthy people competing to show their generosity.
Derek participated, winning a golf weekend at some exclusive club with a bid of fifty thousand dollars. Rosalie beamed with pride, and I dutifully clapped along with everyone else.
Throughout it all, I was hyperaware of Jasmine's presence. She bid on a spa weekend and won with twenty thousand dollars. Drake bid on nothing, his attention divided between his phone and surreptitious glances at the attractive bartender.
Finally, mercifully, the formal portion of the evening ended. The string quartet was replaced by a small band, and the lights dimmed slightly for dancing. Couples began moving toward the dance floor, and I knew what was coming before Derek even stood.
"We should dance," he said, offering his hand. Not "Would you like to dance?" or "May I have this dance?" Just a statement of obligation—we should dance because people are watching and it's expecte