Behind the Cover

Chapter 1

Snow

I practice my smile in the antique mirror, the one Preston’s mother, Bitsy, calls “a charming relic.” The woman staring back at me is a stranger in a designer dress.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a carefully constructed curve of the lips, a mask of contentment I’ve perfected over six years of marriage.

I wonder when I stopped recognizing my own face.

When I traded Snow Holloway for the polished, hollow version of Mrs. Preston Darlington III.

My heart gives a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. It’s Thursday evening. Dinner with the Darlingtons. A weekly ritual of quiet judgment and veiled insults, served on bone china with silver that’s been in the family since the Mayflower, or so Bitsy claims.

I smooth down the silk of my navy dress, a color Preston approved because it’s “appropriately subdued.” My own preference for vibrant, living colors — the saffron yellow of my favorite sundress, the deep magenta of a scarf my mother knitted for me — is tucked away in the back of my closet, alongside the rest of my personality.

I take a deep, fortifying breath, the air tasting stale and recycled, and descend the grand, curving staircase.

The Darlington estate is massive, a sprawling monument to old money and older pride.

Preston and I live in our own wing, but we’re connected to his parents’ section through this grand entrance hall with its soaring ceilings and cold marble floors.

The whole place feels more like a prison than a home.

Preston is waiting at the bottom of the staircase, scrolling through his phone, his thumb moving in a relentless, impatient rhythm.

He looks up, his cold eyes doing a quick, critical scan from my sensible heels to my understated pearl earrings.

He adjusts his cufflinks, a nervous tic he mistakes for a power move.

“Good. You’re on time.” He offers his arm, his touch cool and proprietary, not an invitation but a summons.

“Mother and Father are already in the dining room.”

The dining room is a cavern of mahogany and history, dominated by a portrait of Preston’s great-grandfather looking sternly down his nose at all who dare to eat in his presence. The air is thick with the scent of lemon polish, hothouse lilies, and old money.

“Snow, darling,” Bitsy says, her voice thin and sharp as a needle. She air-kisses the space beside my cheek, the scent of her Chanel No. 5 clinging to me like a shroud. “That dress is… suitable.”

“Thank you, Bitsy,” I say, my practiced smile clicking into place. “You look lovely.”

She does, in a terrifyingly preserved way.

Not a single blonde hair out of place, her diamonds catching the light of the chandelier with cold fire.

Preston’s father, Preston Bradford Darlington Jr. — though everyone calls him Bradford, never Brad, because Bitsy says shortened names are uncouth — finally looks up from his phone, his expression one of profound boredom.

He grunts from the head of the table, a sound that serves as his standard greeting.

Dinner is a masterclass in passive aggression, and I am its primary subject.

Bitsy recounts the latest triumphs of my sister-in-law, Muffy, whose son just got accepted into a preschool that apparently has a twenty-year waiting list. My own career, the one I was so proud of before Preston convinced me to abandon it, is never mentioned.

It’s a ghost at the table, a reminder of a version of me I can barely recall.

“I saw you had to sell off a few acres last year,” Bradford says suddenly, his first direct address to me all evening. He stabs a piece of asparagus with surgical precision. “For the taxes, I assume. Farming is such a… quaint profession. Unpredictable.”

The casual disdain for my parents, for the rich, dark soil they’ve cultivated my entire life, sends a hot spike of anger through my chest. I grip the stem of my water goblet, my knuckles white.

“My parents love what they do,” I say, my voice dangerously even.

“They find value in things beyond a stock portfolio.”

Preston pats my hand, a gesture that looks affectionate to his parents but feels like a clamp on my wrist. A warning. “What my wife means,” he says, his smile not reaching his eyes, “is that she’s very proud of her family’s… rustic charm. Aren’t you, darling?”

My smile feels brittle enough to crack. “Of course.”

“I ran into Carol Lynn today,” Bitsy says, seamlessly changing the subject back to my failings. “She was asking why we haven’t seen you at the club lately. I told her you’ve been… resting.”

The implication hangs in the air. That I’m fragile. Delicate. That the hippie’s daughter is still struggling to keep up with the pace of their world. My own parents, Rain and River, would be horrified. They raised me to be strong, to question authority, not to sit silently while being belittled.

“I’ve been busy helping Preston prepare for the hospital gala,” I reply smoothly. It’s a safe, approved activity for a Darlington wife.

Later, as we’re having coffee in the drawing-room, Preston leans back.

He’s in his element now, holding court. “My new assistant is working out splendidly. An absolute shark, and drop-dead gorgeous too.” He says with a certain relish, watching me for a reaction.

“She’s stunning. A real distraction around the office.

Ambitious, too. Reminds me of you, back in your MBA days. ”

The comparison is a deliberate cruelty. He’s reminding me of the ambition he systematically extinguished.

I should feel a flicker of something, jealousy perhaps.

Instead, I feel… nothing. A strange, hollow calm.

The part of me that should care has been dormant for years.

“That’s nice,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “Is she competent?”

Preston’s brow furrows. It’s not the reaction he expected. He was fishing for insecurity, a spark of the drama he seems to crave and despise in equal measure. My genuine indifference puzzles him.

“She’s got an MBA from Pace,” he says, a little defensively. “Of course, she’s competent.”

I nod, letting the topic die. I don’t care about his new assistant, who is “a real distraction around the office”. I don’t care about the club or the gala or Muffy’s overachieving toddler. I don’t care about any of it.

Back in our bedroom, the silence is a heavy blanket.

It’s a vast, opulent space, decorated in shades of beige and cream, a room with no personality.

Preston is in his dressing room, and I’m mechanically going through my nightly routine.

I remove my jewelry, placing it in a velvet-lined box.

I wipe the makeup from my face, revealing the pale, tired woman underneath.

I’m about to climb into my side of the king-sized bed, the acre of mattress that separates us every night, when I see it.

Preston’s phone, lying face-up on his nightstand.

The screen is still glowing. He must have just set it down before stepping into the shower, too arrogant or distracted to think I’d ever dare look. He never leaves it unlocked. Never.

My heart starts that heavy thud again, but this time it’s faster.

A nervous, frantic rhythm. I glance toward the dressing room door.

I can hear the shower running. This is my window.

Maybe my only window. A voice in my head, the one that sounds like Bitsy, tells me to walk away.

To be a lady. But another voice, a whisper I haven’t heard in years, the one that sounds like Snow Holloway, says, Look.

I pick up the phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop it.

The screen is open to a text thread. Not with a man’s name.

Not with “Tennis Lessons”. Oh no, the contact is Hot Ass, who I assume is his assistant based on what I’ve read.

He’s been droning on about “my new assistant” for months now — he does this with all of them, never bothering to learn their names since they rarely last more than a year.

Just refers to them as “my new assistant” until the next one arrives.

Never mentions her actual name, just how hot or distracting she is. Just like he did tonight.

My breath catches as another text comes in. I scroll up, my thumb clumsy.

Hot Ass: He’s buying it. Merica thinks I’m just your loyal assistant who feels bad for him.

Preston: Perfect. Keep playing sympathetic.

Hot Ass: Took him to lunch like you suggested. Third glass of wine, and he started complaining about his wife being suspicious. I played dumb, asked the right questions.

Preston: And?

Hot Ass: He told me everything.

Preston: Excellent. My father will be thrilled. Once we have solid proof, Merica will resign quietly or lose everything in his divorce. About time too. He’s been a thorn in my side for too long.

My mind spins. Merica. A senior partner at Darlington Investments who clearly has something on the family, something that’s kept him protected all these years.

So Preston is collecting blackmail material.

No doubt evidence of an affair that would destroy Merica’s marriage and trigger his prenup.

Mutually assured destruction. The bitter irony isn’t lost on me — Preston is weaponizing infidelity against someone else while doing the exact same thing.

I keep scrolling, my thumb moving faster, the world narrowing to the glowing screen.

Hot Ass: And what about the other thing you asked me to deal with?

Preston: She suspects nothing. She’s too busy planning charity events and hiding from my mother. She’s not smart enough to see what’s happening.

Hot Ass: Don’t underestimate her.

Preston: Please. My wife is a decorative asset. Nothing more.

The words hit me, but not in the way they should.

There’s no pain. No gut-wrenching sob. Instead, a strange, icy calm washes over me.

It’s the feeling of confirmation. The final piece of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was solving.

A memory flashes, unbidden: our first date.

He’d told me he loved my “unspoiled, authentic nature.” He’d called me a breath of fresh air.

It was all a lie. He wasn’t looking for a partner; he was looking for a project.

A beautiful, unpolished stone he could cut and shape to fit his setting.

Decorative asset.

He’s right. That’s what I’ve become. But he’s also wrong. My parents named me Snow, not Doormat. And I have an MBA, just like his shark of an assistant. Or should I call her hot ass? I’m not stupid. I’m just… sedated.

Then I see the next text. It’s from a different number, a thread with a woman named Ashleigh.

Ashleigh: I miss you. Our night at The Plaza was amazing. I want to do it again.

Preston: I know. Soon, I promise. Once I handle my wife.

Ashleigh: You said that last time. Is she really going to sign the post-nup?

Preston: She’ll do what she’s told. She always does.

A post-nup. There it is. The cheap, predictable betrayal I knew was there but hadn’t bothered to look for.

So that’s his plan. Lock me in tighter, strip away what little protection I have left.

Make sure I get nothing if I ever wise up and leave.

He’s been three steps ahead this whole time — or so he thinks.

I exit the messages and tap his email app.

I spot it immediately: a receipt from The Plaza Hotel.

A room for the night. A charge of two hundred dollars at the Champagne Bar.

A charge for room service at 2 AM. Last Tuesday.

The night he was supposedly working late, and left for work before I woke up on Wednesday morning.

The total is more than my parents make in a week of selling their organic produce at the farmer’s market.

My business brain, the part of me I thought was long dead, kicks into gear.

I don’t cry. I don’t throw the phone. My hands, suddenly steady, move with methodical precision.

I work fast, my thumb flying across the screen.

Screenshots of everything. The texts with Ashleigh.

The hotel receipt. The conversation with Hot Ass.

I email them to an account I’ve had since college and then delete the screenshots and emails from the sent folder.

One more thing. I pull up the contact labeled “Hot Ass” and copy the number to my own phone. I might need it.

A strange sense of freedom, sharp and exhilarating, floods my veins. I’m not devastated. I’m not heartbroken. I’m liberated. This isn’t the end of my world. It’s the beginning of a war.

I place the phone back on the nightstand, exactly as I found it, just as the shower turns off. I slide into bed, my back to his side.

Preston emerges, smelling of expensive soap, and gets into bed without a word. Soon, his breathing deepens into the soft snores I’ve listened to for six years. He’s sleeping the peaceful sleep of a man who believes he’s in complete control.

He’s wrong.