Chapter 1
At the annual party of my husband's company, he showed up with his secretary.
Everyone was posting photos on Instagram, captioning them, "Our boss's wife is gorgeous."
I stared at my phone for three minutes.
Then, I switched it off and went to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, my phone was blowing up. There were over 100 missed calls.
The latest message popped up: [Honey, I'm sorry. Please, answer the phone, okay?]
Seriously? All I did was get some sleep, and suddenly he was already groveling.
*****
We'd been married for three years.
Richard Lane, my husband, had never once taken me to any company event.
Not the annual party, the dinners, or the client meetings.
He always brought Sophie Quinn, his secretary.
The women in our circle all said they were a golden team.
I asked Richard about it once.
He said, "She's only my work partner. Don't overthink it."
That was alright.
I stopped overthinking it.
But tonight was different.
Tonight wasn't only a regular business dinner.
It was Lane Group's annual strategy party.
All the key suppliers, investors, and major clients would attend.
Richard had told me three months ago, "This one's critical."
I went out and got my hair done.
I put on that champagne-colored dress he gave me last year.
Then, I sat alone in the living room for two hours, waiting.
By 7:30 PM, I was still waiting.
His call finally came.
"Don't come tonight. Sophie's better at handling the drinks for me," Richard said, sounding totally unfazed.
It sounded as if he was stating a fact.
"You look great in that dress. Why don't you put it on and stay home? Don't let it go to waste," he added.
Then, the call ended.
I sat on the couch.
The champagne-colored dress shimmered under the lights.
I thought, 'Damn. It looked gorgeous.
'But what a waste.'
I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram.
I barely scrolled before I saw a new post.
Grace Lynn, Lane Group's marketing director, had posted a grid of nine photos.
The party was in full swing, with crystal chandeliers, long tables, and fresh flowers everywhere.
And there it was.
Richard and Sophie, side by side in the shot. Richard in a sharp deep blue suit, Sophie in a sleek black strapless evening dress.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked like the perfect pair. Him dashing, her stunning.
The caption read: [Mr. Lane and Ms. Quinn are such a perfect pair tonight. Total power couple.]
The post was blowing up with likes.
The owners of their partner companies were lighting up the comments section with: [They look amazing together] and [A match made in heaven.]
I kept scrolling.
Sophie had posted, too.
It was a selfie.
She tilted her head, leaning on Richard's shoulder, with a diamond ring on her right ring finger.
The caption read: [My dance partner tonight is pretty handsome.] The text was followed by a sheepish emoji.
I stared at that photo.
The diamond ring on her finger caught the light, scattering tiny sparkles everywhere.
I recognized that ring.
Three months ago, Richard took me to Cartier, and we picked it out together.
He said it was to make up for the wedding ring I never got.
I felt it was way too pricey, so I picked the ring with the tiniest diamond.
It was a plain little 0.31-carat, six-prong ring.
I looked down at my own left ring finger.
Nothing was there.
Richard had said wearing a ring made washing my hands annoying and asked me to leave it off for now.
I agreed and took it off.
'So that's it. He was saving the ring for another woman,' I realized.
I flipped my phone over, screen down, and set it on the coffee table.
The living room was dead quiet.
Rain was coming down outside.
Every now and then, a car would roll past on the driveway below, the tires splashing through puddles.
I was still wearing that champagne-colored dress.
The fabric brushed against my knees, cool to the touch.
I reached out and flipped my phone over and couldn't help but look at that photo again.
The diamond ring was on Sophie's finger.
Richard had his hand on her waist.
He looked so comfortable, smiling like it was pretty natural.
He never smiled like that when he was with me.
I kept staring at the photo, unable to look away.
Then I hit the power button.
The screen went dark.
I set my phone down on the coffee table, stood up, and walked into the bedroom.
I didn't bother to take off my makeup or change out of my dress.
I lay down,
The champagne-colored skirt of my dress spread out over the dark gray sheets.
It looked like a piece of silk someone had thrown away.
I pulled the blanket over me and closed my eyes.
But three seconds later, I opened them again.
Then, I got up and walked back to the living room.
I picked up my phone from the coffee table but didn't open my photo gallery or check Instagram.
I only held down the power button.
The screen lit up with a prompt: [Power off?]
I tapped the confirm button.
The screen went completely dark.
The living room was dead silent.
It was so quiet that I could hear my own breathing.
In and out, each breath echoed in the silence.
With my phone powered off, I walked back to the bedroom.
I tucked it under my pillow.
Then I lay down again.
This time, I didn't open my eyes again.
*****
At the Grand City Hotel, the third-floor banquet hall was buzzing with energy.
The vibe was just right.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the whole place in a golden glow.
The long tables were loaded with lobsters and king crabs.
The champagne tower sparkled under the lights, tiny bubbles rising to the surface.
Richard stood by the head table, glass in hand, chatting with a few investors.
He was on top of his game tonight.
His suit fit perfectly, his smile was perfectly poised, and his words were flawless.
Sophie stood close by his side, half a step behind him.
She held a glass of red wine, occasionally adding a gentle comment in her soft voice.
A few of the investors' wives were already whispering among themselves.
"Is that Mr. Lane's wife? She's gorgeous."
"No. That's his secretary."
"Oh, I see. His secretary, huh?"
They dragged out the word, making it sound like there was a whole story behind it.
Sophie heard them.
She let it slide, not saying a word.
She smiled a little, looked down, and took a sip of her wine.
Richard heard them, too.
He also kept quiet without explaining.
Halfway through the party, the big screen switched over to Lane Group's annual performance video. The presentation began, slides flipping by one after another.
Revenue figures, market share, progress on new projects—everything was laid out for all to see.
When they got to the third-quarter core projects, the big screen flashed up a project name.
It read: [Skyline Bay Luxury Community Integrated Marketing Plan.]
Charles Warren, Richard's partner and the chairman of Warren Realty, suddenly spoke up, "Richard, about the Skyline Bay project, I remember the original proposal wasn't from your team, was it?"
Richard's hand holding the wine glass paused for a split second.
He answered, "Mr. Warren, you've got a sharp memory. That proposal was a team effort from our marketing department."
"No, that's not right," Charles interrupted, setting down his glass and wiping his mouth. "I remember it clearly. Last year, when Lane Group came to our office for the first pitch, the young woman who presented wasn't her."
He pointed at Sophie on stage.
"And it wasn't you, either," he added.