11. Chapter 11
Julian
The camera flashes hit me. Smile, Julian. Wave, Julian. Pretend everything’s fine, Julian. I guide Carmella toward the red carpet with my hand barely touching the small of her back. We look exactly like what everyone expects. No one would guess I haven’t slept in days.
Elowen hasn’t begged for her job back. In fact, she’s posted a selfie on social media that screams the opposite.
She’s happily living without me, and though I’ve called Leo and Meredith every night at bedtime, I miss them.
I’m hoping seeing Carmella with me at this gala will be the wake-up call she needs.
Carmella murmurs, her crimson lips barely moving, “Robert from the Thompson Architecture Group is watching.”
I adjust my posture automatically when Robert Thompson stares at me. He’s a strict man. Word on the street is that he’s disowned both of his sons. His oldest, Steven, for not following the Thompson way, and his youngest for marrying a non-approved social worker.
My tuxedo feels too tight around the collar despite being custom-tailored.
I’ve lost weight since Elowen left. Meanwhile, Carmella moves with elegance beside me.
Her black gown hugs every curve, strategically revealing just enough skin to be noticed without crossing into inappropriate.
Her dark hair is swept up in a complex arrangement that probably required three hours and two assistants.
I should feel proud to have her on my arm, but I feel nothing because I don’t love her.
The annual Children’s Hospital Charity Gala sprawls before us.
I’ve attended this event for eight consecutive years with Elowen.
Always with her quiet presence beside me, her small hand in mine, her button nose crinkling when she smiled at the children’s artwork I never noticed until she did, displayed in the entryway.
Tonight, the artwork blurs as we pass. Carmella doesn’t even glance at it.
“Julian Plaza! Over here!”
The photographers’ calls drag me back to the present.
I paste on my corporate smile, the one that shows exactly three teeth on each side.
Yes, I’ve practiced in the mirror and counted.
Two teeth is too little, four is too wide.
Apparently, I look like a maniac with four because my eyes go wide.
Elowen was the one who pointed out the “psychopath eyes,” warning me it was scaring the clients.
“Looking sharp tonight, Mr. Plaza!” A flash of light comes from the side as someone snaps a picture.
“That means they like my eyes,” I murmur to Carmella out the side of my mouth so no one else hears.
“What?” She doesn’t break her gaze from the photographers.
Sighing, I raise my hand in acknowledgment and continue my stride. Carmella joins me but slows her pace to give them extra time to capture her profile. She knows exactly how to position herself for maximum impact. I wonder if she practices in front of a mirror like I do.
Elowen always hated this part. She would grip my hand too tightly, her smile growing strained under the assault of flashing bulbs. I used to find her discomfort amusing. Endearing, even.
“Mr. Plaza!” A voice cuts through the noise, sharper than the others. A woman with a press badge and a recording device steps forward. “Where is your wife tonight?”
“I—” I begin, but nothing follows, because I don’t have an appropriately professional answer. What can I say? She left me two months ago? That she’s taken our children? That she cut her hair, opting to wear it natural? Blasphemy, all of it.
Carmella’s hand slides possessively around my arm. “They’re taking some space right now,” she says smoothly. “I’m helping him through a difficult time.”
My jaw tightens so hard I feel my back teeth grinding together. Her tone feels off, misleading even, but I can’t quite pinpoint it. She opens her mouth for a follow-up question, but Carmella is already guiding me past, her grip on my arm firm.
“Keep smiling,” she whispers. “We’re almost inside.”
I maintain the expression through sheer force of will.
It takes a second, but I realize what had upset me.
Carmella has no right to speak for me, and she especially has no right to define or explain what is happening between my wife and me.
Ultimately, I don’t cause a scene. The Plaza public image comes first. Robert and I have that in common.
We reach the grand doors of the ballroom. As we pause to wait in line to enter, I whisper, “Remember your place, Carmella. We are business associates. That is all.”
She blinks, as if she has no idea what I’m talking about.
But I don’t have the opportunity to elaborate further, because it’s our turn to present our invitations for entrance where corporate banners hang tastefully along the perimeter, announcing this year’s top donors.
Plaza Investments is prominently displayed near the stage, our logo larger than last year’s.
Security, or someone important for that matter, approaches with a deferential smile. “Mr. Plaza, Ms. Ruiz, welcome. We’re honored to have you joining us tonight. Your center-front table, as requested, is ready.”
As requested by whom? Certainly not me. I never specified seating arrangements. Elowen always handled those details, and I was usually quite pleased with our placements. Because actually, I prefer the back, closest to the door. Front and center is so unlike me.
Since it wasn’t I who requested such a prominent place, and it certainly wasn’t my wife, I glance at Carmella, whose satisfied smile confirms my suspicion.
She’s been making arrangements positioning us.
This isn’t what I wanted. I only wanted to teach Elowen a lesson, not to make a statement to the entire world.
“Perfect,” she says. “We’ll want good visibility during the donation announcements.”
Of course. Because this isn’t about supporting sick children; it’s about being seen supporting sick children. It’s about the photos that will appear in tomorrow’s business section.
I follow Carmella through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, shaking hands when necessary. She navigates the space effortlessly, her back straight, her smile radiant. On paper, she’s perfect. The ideal corporate partner. The woman who scored highest on every metric except one.
I’d chosen Elowen, anyway.