Page 2 of The Husband I Left

“I’ve been imagining the headlines all week.”

Normally, I would be walking into this ballroom on Oliver’s arm, and Nancy’s list of rules would be playing on a repeating loop in my head.

Smile, but not too widely. Speak, but only when spoken to, and only about approved topics (the weather, the charity’s good work, how lovely the floral arrangements are). Drink, but not too much. Don’t eat. Don’t laugh too loudly; in fact, don’t laugh at all. Don’t fidget. Don’t slouch. And for the love of God, wear shoes I won’t trip in.

I would be nervous as hell, because I knew that I would hear about any mistakes made the next day. And I always seemed to make at least one mistake, and each mistake got another “do not” added to the list.

I can’t help but snicker when I think of all the things she’s going to have to add to the list after tonight.

All that being said, you’d think I would have been relieved last month when Oliver informed me, as he stood in our bedroom dressing for the day, that he knew how much I hated these events, so I didn’t need to attend the gala this year. He said he always felt terrible about how uncomfortable I always seemed to be, the way I would complain afterwards about feeling out of place, and he didn’t want to keep putting me through it. He needed to network anyway; he said. It would all be terribly boring. He’d be home late; don’t wait up.

Okay, part of me was relieved. He wasn’t wrong. I loathe these events. I complain about them constantly. Dread them for weeks.

It doesn’t mean I was fooled, however. Not for a moment.

Because I’ve seen the way Oliver’s new assistant, Victoria, looks at him. And I haven’t failed to notice the way he looks at her. And I’ve been keeping track of every evening spent working late, the business dinners, the sudden urgent business trips, the missed dates, the cancelled weekend getaway, the way he’s become increasingly distant. The way he never reaches for me when he comes to bed anymore.

Oliver only thought he was being clever.

Evan squeezes my arm as we reach the doors, and the hotel staff pull them open, and the ballroom rises up in front of us in all its glittering glory.

The Sinclair Foundation does not do anything small. The ballroom is enormous, all high ceilings and gold accents and flowers…so many freaking flowers. Champagne flows. A string quartet plays in the corner. Hundreds of really rich people in black tuxedos and designer gowns circulate the room. Heads turn and conversations trail off as Evan and I enter the ballroom.

I don’t blame them. I would look at me too.

The whispering starts at the door and follows us in.

“Is that Genevieve Sinclair?”

“Who’s the man with her?”

“Where’s Oliver?”

“Did you see her dress?”

I keep my chin up and my smile bright, and I let Evan guide me through the crowd. He’s having the time of his life, of course. Evan has never once in his life felt shy, and he’s not about to start now. He nods and waves at people. He winks at a woman who glares back at him. He acts as if he’s been going to these things his entire life and this is just a room full of old friends.

Oliver and his family are easy to spot; they’re holding court near the center of the room, as they always do. Thomas and Nancy stand like king and queen, receiving guests. Oliver stands beside them in his bespoke tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled. He’s so handsome it almost makes me angry. He was my whole world for two years, the billionaire who charmed me off my feet and into a life I was never built for, and I loved him so much that I let him. I loved him so much that I tried to become someone else for him.

His blue eyes are locked on Victoria, who stands at his side in a sleek silver gown. They’re standing close. Too close.

They haven’t noticed us yet.

“Oh God, there they are,” I mutter to Evan, my fingers digging into his arm as anxiety flares inside me.

“Just breathe. We’ve got this,” he replies, covering my hand with his own and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

We move through the crowd, which parts before us like the Red Sea. Nancy sees us first and I get to watch her face in real time as she realizes just what it is she’s looking at. Her gaze travels from my hair to my lipstick to my dress to the slit in my dress to Evan, and then back to my hair. It’s like she can’t decide which part of it is worse.

All of it, Nancy. The worst part is all of it.

Thomas notices his wife’s reaction and follows her gaze. His eyebrows shoot up, and after a moment of blank shock, his mouth quirks into what almost looks like a smile. Thomas Sinclair has always been a hard man for me to read, but right now, I’d swear he’s trying not to laugh.

Oliver is the last to see us, too engrossed in whatever Victoria is whispering in his ear. It’s Thomas who alerts him, clearing his throat loudly and nodding in our direction. Oliver turns, curious at first, then freezes.

The look on his face is worth every second I spent getting ready tonight. His eyes widen, his jaw actually drops, and for a moment, he looks like he’s seeing a ghost. Victoria notices his reaction and turns too, her face slackening with shock when she sees me.

The whispering gets louder as we reach Oliver. People are turning, craning, stepping aside to let us through and then closing in behind us to get a better view.