5. Elizabeth
— ? —
Elizabeth
The invitation arrives on a silver tray, hand-delivered by Sarah with an expression that suggests she knows more than she’s saying.
“The Coastal Society’s annual charity gala, ma’am. Mr. Fairweather asked me to inform you that your attendance is expected.”
Expected. Not requested. Not hoped for. Expected.
I turn the heavy cardstock over in my hands. Embossed lettering, gilt edges, the kind of invitation that costs more to produce than my father’s monthly rent used to be. The event is tonight, which means Jarec has known about it for weeks and only now thought to mention it.
Or perhaps he was hoping I wouldn’t have to come at all.
“Is there something appropriate for me to wear?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “I didn’t exactly pack for galas.”
Sarah’s expression softens. “Mr. Fairweather had several options delivered to your room this morning. I took the liberty of hanging them in your closet.”
Of course he did. Because even my wardrobe is something he controls, something he manages, something he handles without bothering to consult me.
I thank Sarah and make my way upstairs, my mood souring with every step.
The closet door is open when I reach my room, and inside I find a row of gowns that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. Silks and satins in tasteful neutrals - dove gray, champagne, soft blush. Pretty colors. Safe colors. The colors of a woman who knows her place.
I run my fingers along the fabrics, considering each one.
Then I see it.
At the far end of the row, half-hidden behind a cream-colored confection, hangs a gown of deep emerald. Low-cut, fitted through the bodice, with a slit that would show my leg to mid-thigh. It’s bold, dramatic, nothing like the careful options surrounding it.
Someone made a mistake. Or someone was testing me.
I pull it from the rack and hold it up to the light.
If Jarec wants a wife who fades into the background, who smiles politely and says the right things and never makes anyone uncomfortable - well. He married the wrong woman.
***
The yacht club glitters with old money and older grudges.
I stand at the entrance, my emerald gown drawing eyes like a magnet. The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging curves I usually try to minimize, showing skin I usually try to hide.
I’ve never felt more powerful. Or more terrified.
Jarec appears at my elbow, and I feel him go still beside me. I don’t turn to look at him, don’t acknowledge the sharp intake of his breath or the way his hand hovers at the small of my back without quite touching.
“That wasn’t one of the options I selected,” he says, voice low.
“It was in my closet. I assumed it was meant for me.”
“It was a mistake. The boutique must have included it by accident.”
“Happy accident, then.” I finally turn to meet his eyes. He looks devastating in his tuxedo, all sharp lines and barely contained intensity, and something hot flares in his gaze as he takes in the full effect of the dress. “Shall we go in?”
He doesn’t answer. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he won’t let himself say. Then his hand finally settles against my back, warm through the thin fabric, and he guides me into the room.
Heads turn.
I feel the weight of every stare, hear the whispers trailing in our wake like perfume. The Fairweather heir and his arranged bride. Such a strange match. I heard she was practically a charity case.
I lift my chin and smile.
Let them look. Let them talk. I’m done shrinking.
***
The first hour passes in a blur of introductions and champagne and conversations that feel like tests I haven’t studied for.
Jarec is polite, distant, performing the role of dutiful husband with the same cool efficiency he brings to everything.
His hand stays at my back, a constant presence, but his attention drifts - to business associates who want his ear, to society matrons who want his favor, to anyone and everyone except me.
I’m nursing my second glass of champagne, contemplating escape to the powder room, when the crowd parts.
And I see her.
Victoria Glover is everything I am not.
Tall where I am average. Blonde where I am dark. Elegant in a silver gown that clings to curves I could never compete with, moving through the room like she owns it - because in a way, she does. Old money, older connections, the kind of pedigree that opens doors I didn’t even know existed.
She’s heading straight for Jarec.
I watch her approach, unable to look away, the way you watch a car crash unfolding in slow motion. She’s beautiful in that effortless way that makes other women feel inadequate just by existing, and she moves with the confidence of someone who has never been denied anything in her life.
“Darling!” Her voice is honeyed, delighted, pitched to carry across the room. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
She lays a hand on Jarec’s arm like she still owns it. Like she never stopped.
I watch my husband transform.
The cold marble of his expression cracks into something almost warm. He doesn’t smile, exactly, but something in him softens in a way I’ve never seen directed at me. His shoulders relax. His jaw unclenches. He looks, for the first time since I’ve known him, comfortable.
“Victoria.” His voice is different too - warmer, easier. “I thought you were in Milan.”
“I came back early. Couldn’t miss the gala.” Her eyes flick to me, dismissive and knowing, cataloging my dress, my pearls, my everything and finding it all wanting. “And of course, I heard about your… situation.”
“My wife,” Jarec says. “Elizabeth.”
The word sounds strange in his mouth. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with it.
“Yes, I know.” Victoria’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She extends her hand to me, and I take it, feeling the brief, cold press of her fingers against mine. “How brave of you, darling. Taking on such a… responsibility.”
The word lands like a slap. I’m the responsibility. The burden. The obligation he’s shouldering out of duty to a dead man.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I manage, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Jarec has mentioned you.”
He hasn’t. Not once. But I see the flicker of surprise in her eyes, the momentary uncertainty, and it gives me a petty satisfaction.
“Has he?” Victoria’s smile sharpens. “How sweet. We go way back, Jarec and I. Years of history. Inside jokes, shared memories - you know how it is.” She pauses, perfectly timed. “Or perhaps you don’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“Victoria.” There’s a warning in Jarec’s voice, faint but present.
“I’m just being friendly, darling.” She squeezes his arm, proprietary and possessive.
“I’m sure Elizabeth understands. It must be so overwhelming, being thrust into this world without any preparation.
I’m happy to help however I can. Show her the ropes, introduce her to the right people.
” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing friendly in them at all. “Guide her away from the wrong ones.”
“That’s very generous,” I say. “But I think I can manage.”
“Can you?” Victoria tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s already solved. “Well. We’ll see.”
An acquaintance calls her name from across the room, and she excuses herself with a flutter of fingers and a kiss pressed to Jarec’s cheek - lingering, intimate, marking territory.
I watch her go, my champagne glass clutched so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
***
For the rest of the evening, I watch.
I watch Victoria touch Jarec’s arm, his shoulder, the lapel of his jacket. I watch them lean close, speaking in low voices, sharing jokes I’m not privy to. I watch the way she throws her head back when she laughs, exposing the long line of her throat, and the way his eyes follow the movement.
I watch Jarec laugh.
The sound hits me like a physical blow. Rich and warm and completely foreign, nothing like the careful control I’ve come to expect from him. He laughs, and Victoria preens, and I stand by the window with my champagne going flat, feeling more invisible than I’ve ever felt in my life.
He has never laughed like that with me. He has never laughed with me at all.
The jealousy is irrational. I know it’s irrational. I don’t even like him - I’ve been telling myself that for days, repeating it like a mantra, like if I say it enough times it will become true.
But watching him light up for another woman while I stand alone, unwanted, unnecessary…
It burns.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself firmly. You don’t want him. You’ve never wanted him. You want to survive this arrangement with your dignity intact and nothing more.
But the kitchen keeps flashing through my mind. His thumb stroking across my palm. The way his eyes darkened when he felt my pulse racing. The careful, gentle way he bandaged my finger, like I was something precious instead of something burdensome.
He’s capable of tenderness. I’ve seen it now. I know it exists.
He just doesn’t offer it to me.
Across the room, Esther Fairweather watches the scene with obvious satisfaction.
Jarec’s mother is elegant and terrifying, all sharp cheekbones and sharper judgments, and she hasn’t said more than three words to me all evening.
But she’s said plenty to Victoria - warm words, familiar words, the words of a mother greeting the daughter she actually wanted.
Esther catches my eye across the crowded room. Raises her champagne glass in a mocking toast.
I look away first.
***
The evening is winding down when Victoria takes the small stage to thank the donors.
She’s radiant under the spotlight, every inch the society queen, and the crowd hangs on her every word.
I’ve retreated to a corner near the bar, nursing a glass of water now because the champagne was making me maudlin, watching the proceedings with the detached interest of an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe.
“And before I go,” Victoria says, microphone in hand, smile dazzling, “I want to announce that I’ll be staying in town indefinitely. Some things are simply too precious to leave behind.”
Her eyes find Jarec in the crowd.
He doesn’t object. Doesn’t even look uncomfortable. Just stands there, accepting her attention like it’s his due, like she hasn’t just announced to everyone in this room that she’s staying for him.
I set down my water glass so hard the stem nearly snaps.
Something crystallizes in my chest. The resentment and resistance that have defined these weeks, the careful distance I’ve been keeping from my own feelings - all of it hardens into something sharper.
I don’t just want to survive this marriage anymore.
I’m done being invisible. Done being the obligation, the charity case, the inconvenient wife who fades into the background while prettier women claim what’s mine.
He’s my husband. Whatever else this arrangement is, whatever it isn’t, he is legally, contractually, irrevocably mine.
And if he won’t look at me, I’ll make him look.