Chapter 2 Daisy
DAISY
By the following Wednesday, the Meridian anniversary party is exactly as miserable as I expected it to be.
The ballroom glitters with crystal chandeliers and champagne towers and people whose net worth exceeds my comprehension.
I'm wearing a black dress that cost more than three months of my old apartment's rent and heels that are slowly murdering my feet.
My smile has been fixed in place since I arrived. Adam is not here.
"Zurich call," Lorraine explained when I arrived, her PR-perfect smile not wavering for a second. "He's so sorry to miss your entrance. He'll join you as soon as he can."
That was before the first round of speeches.
I stand near a pillar, nursing a glass of champagne I have no intention of finishing, and watch Meridian's elite mingle like beautiful predators at a watering hole.
The executives' wives cluster in groups defined by some hierarchy I've never understood: who's up, who's down, whose husband just closed what deal.
I've been married to the CEO for five years and still can't decode their signals.
A group of four approaches. I recognize them vaguely from previous events: wives of VPs, I think, or maybe board members. Their diamonds are blinding.
"Mrs. Smith." The leader, a blonde with cheekbones that could cut paper, air-kisses near my face. "How lovely to see you."
"You too," I say, because I have to. "Beautiful event."
"Isn't it? Lorraine outdoes herself every year." The blonde's eyes sweep over my dress with the practiced assessment of someone who can estimate retail value at a glance. "What do you do again? I always forget."
She doesn't forget. She asks me this every year because the answer disappoints her every year, and there's a particular kind of woman who enjoys being disappointed by other women. It makes her feel better about the yoga instructor and the charity board and the nothing else.
"I run a book club and blog," I say, keeping my voice pleasant. "Dog-Eared Daisy. Romance reviews and reader community."
"Oh." Her nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly. "Books."
"Yes. Books. The rectangular things with words in them. You may have seen them around."
The blonde blinks, and I watch her decide whether I'm being rude or just quirky. She lands on quirky, safer assumption for someone married to a Meridian executive.
"How nice." She turns to the redhead on her left. "Carol, didn't you say your daughter reads those?"
"On planes," Carol confirms. She's holding her champagne like it's a shield. "She says they're light. Easy. You know, for when you don't want to think too hard."
"Perfect for travel," the blonde agrees. "Like magazines."
"Romance actually outsells most other genres," I say. "Over a billion dollars annually. But sure. Like magazines."
"A billion?" The third woman, a brunette with a tennis tan and a tennis attitude, raises her eyebrows. "That seems high."
"It's not. I can send you the industry reports if you're interested. Publishers Weekly does a great breakdown every year."
"I'm sure you're very knowledgeable about your little hobby." The blonde smiles the way people smile at children showing off finger paintings. "Do you get paid for it? The blogging?"
"Yes. I have sponsorships, affiliate partnerships, a paid subscriber tier—"
"How fun." She's already turning back to Carol. "I was telling Carol before you arrived, I think the issue with the gala planning committee is really about vision. Margaret wants to go subtle, but subtle doesn't photograph well for the foundation."
"Margaret's taste has always been questionable," Carol says. "Remember the ice sculpture disaster?"
"God, the ice sculpture." The blonde laughs. "Three thousand dollars to watch a swan melt into the shrimp display."
I'm still standing here. They know I'm still standing here. The brunette gives me a small sympathetic smile, like she's the nice one of the group, but she doesn't actually include me in the conversation, and somehow that's worse. Pity wrapped in exclusion, a little bow on top.
"I actually think subtle can photograph beautifully," I say, because apparently I haven't learned my lesson. "It depends on the lighting and the photographer."
The blonde glances at me like she's surprised I'm still present. "Do you do event planning too? Along with the book blog?"
"No. I just have opinions. Occupational hazard of being a person."
"Hmm." She turns back to Carol. "Anyway, I told Margaret that if she wants the Vanity Fair spread, she needs to think bolder. Statement pieces. Something people will actually talk about."
"The flower wall worked so well at the Hudson benefit," Carol says.
"Exactly. That flower wall was everywhere. My daughter said it was all over her Instagram for weeks."
"Your daughter's on Instagram?" the brunette asks. "I thought she was at Princeton."
"She can do both, Karen. It's called multitasking."
I take a sip of my flat champagne and wonder if this is what my life looks like from the outside.
A woman in a nice dress, standing slightly apart from a group of other women in nice dresses, pretending she belongs at a party where she's really just furniture.
Adam's furniture, specifically. Decorative and expected and completely irrelevant to anything actually happening.
"Mrs. Smith, does your husband read your blog?" the brunette, Karen, asks suddenly. It sounds like she's trying to include me, but the question has an edge to it. "I can't imagine Adam Smith reading romance novels."
"Adam's very supportive of my work," I say, which is technically true in the sense that he's never actively opposed it. "He's not really a fiction reader, though. More of a financial reports guy."
"How interesting that you married someone so different from you," the blonde says. "Opposites attract, I suppose."
"I suppose."
"My husband and I have everything in common." She says this like it's an achievement, like she won a prize at the compatibility fair. "Same alma mater, same social circle, same vision for our family. It makes things so much easier."
"That does sound easy," I say. "Like marrying yourself but with more closet space."
Carol makes a sound that might be a laugh, quickly suppressed. The blonde's eyes narrow.
"What I mean," she says slowly, "is that shared values are important. A foundation for partnership. It's not about marrying yourself, it's about marrying someone who understands your world."
"And romance bloggers don't understand your world?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
The silence stretches for exactly two seconds before the blonde decides I'm not worth the conflict.
She pivots smoothly back to event planning, to Margaret's questionable taste, to the flower wall at the Hudson benefit, and I stand there holding my flat champagne like an idiot, face hot, chest tight, wondering why I even bothered.
I know what I do matters. I know it. A hundred thousand followers on the video channel alone who find joy and community in what I've built.
Authors who credit my reviews with boosting their sales.
Readers who message me saying my content helped them through depression, divorce, grief.
I'm good at my job. Years of work went into this. What I built is real.
But standing here, in my expensive dress at my husband's company party, being dismissed by women whose only accomplishment seems to be strategic marriage. It's hard to remember. The deal is always more important.
"Excuse me," I murmur, and step away. They don't notice.
I find a quieter corner near the terrace doors and let myself breathe.
The city sparkles through the glass, indifferent to my humiliation.
Somewhere in this building, Adam is on a call about Zurich.
Somewhere in this building, my husband is doing something that matters more than standing beside me at an event with his name on the banner.
"Daisy?"
I turn. The woman approaching me is familiar: dark hair, bright eyes, a Meridian badge on a lanyard around her neck. Junior staff, not guests. She's carrying two glasses of champagne with the careful determination of someone trying not to spill.
"Kendra?" I place her after a second. Book club. Thursday nights at The Margin. She always sits in the back, always has sharp opinions about plot structure. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here now." She grins, gesturing at her badge. "Started three weeks ago. Marketing coordinator. I missed your last livestream. I had no idea you’d be at this thing."
"My husband works here."
Kendra's eyes go wide. "Your husband, you mean… wait." She looks at the banner stretched across the ballroom, the one that reads MERIDIAN: 15 YEARS OF INNOVATION. "Your husband is the boss?"
"Yes."
"You're Mrs. Smith?"
"Technically."
"Oh my God." Kendra's champagne sloshes dangerously. "Daisy. You never said. All those Thursday nights, you never… I had no idea."
"It doesn't usually come up. Between discussions of why enemies-to-lovers is superior to friends-to-lovers."
"I mean, obviously enemies-to-lovers, but—" She shakes her head, laughing. "This is crazy. This changes everything."
The way she says it, everything, makes me pause. There's an intensity in her expression that feels slightly off, though I can't pinpoint why.
"It doesn't have to change anything," I say. "Book club is book club. This is..." I gesture vaguely at the glittering room. "This."
"Still." Kendra steps closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "I can't believe you've been keeping this secret. The girls at the office are going to die when I tell them."
"Maybe don't tell them?" I try to keep my tone light. "I like keeping my work life separate. Less complicated."
"Right, right. Of course." She nods vigorously, but her eyes are still scanning me with new interest: the dress, the jewelry Adam insisted I wear, the whole picture. "It's just so wild. Dog-Eared Daisy, married to Adam Smith. You're like, secretly important."
I'm not secretly important. I'm openly ignored. But I don't say that.