I had no answer. The truth felt too small and humiliating to say out loud. Every present, every outing, every “romantic” dinner had been carefully tied to his professional ambitions or social climbing. The tennis bracelet he gave me last Christmas only appeared after Marcus’s wife pointed out my modest jewelry at the company gala. The weekend in the Hamptons revolved around a client’s daughter’s wedding. Even our anniversary dinner conveniently included two prospective investors seated “by coincidence” at the same restaurant.
After school that day, I went home to get ready and deliberately chose a dress Travis hadn’t approved. It was red, knee-length—something I’d bought before we were married, back when I chose clothes because they made me feel alive, not because they projected an image of his success.
Standing before the bedroom mirror, I applied my grandmother’s coral lipstick—the shade she wore every day of her adult life. “For my brave girl,” I murmured to my reflection as I fastened her emerald earrings. They were small, likely worth less than the parking at Chateau Blanc, but they were genuine.
She had worn them through the Depression, through my grandfather’s passing, through the cancer that eventually claimed her. “Put these on when you need courage,” she’d told me.
And tonight—surrounded by Travis’s colleagues who would see through me while silently assessing his net worth—I would need every ounce of courage those tiny stones could lend.
