Chapter 4

The dining room gleamed under soft chandelier light as journalists filled our home, their eager eyes and recording devices trained on Scarlett. Michael had insisted we host this dinner—an intimate gathering to discuss the 'creative process' behind Scarlett's memoir. My memoir. My words.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, the navy dress Michael had selected hanging awkwardly on my frame. It was two sizes too large—Scarlett had suggested it, claiming the loose fit would be 'more comfortable for serving.' The real reason was clear as she sat resplendent in crimson silk that hugged every curve, commanding attention at the head…