Chapter 5
Preston
The Marriott ballroom is glittering with Manhattan’s elite, and I’m in my element.
Black tie, champagne flowing, the annual Children’s Hospital Gala — exactly the kind of event where the Darlington name commands respect.
I adjust my bow tie and scan the crowd, searching for that familiar honey-blonde hair.
Nicolette double and triple-checked Snow’s confirmation of attendance.
Any moment now, she’ll walk through those doors, and this nightmare will finally end.
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of silence since I was served with those ridiculous divorce papers.
And that humiliating scene with the singing telegram — I’m still finding glitter in unexpected places.
I’d had to spend the rest of the day pretending it was funny, laughing it off as a joke.
But the damage was done. People talked. They always talk.
The flowers arrived the next day — I had Nicolette confirm delivery. Two dozen red roses with that French message that always melted her. Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even an acknowledgment.
The dinner reservation at that trendy bistro where everyone would see us?
I’d even had a dress delivered to wherever she’s staying — it took Nicolette digging through Snow’s credit card statements to find the address, but she managed it.
Something appropriate, elegant, a clear message that I know her taste better than she knows herself.
Nicolette confirmed Snow received the invitation, including the time and location.
I’d arrived fifteen minutes early, positioned myself at the best table where I’d be seen. Waited. Nothing.
The waitress had been pretty, though. Blonde, leggy, impressed by the platinum Amex. The penthouse suite at the hotel next to my office hadn’t gone to waste that night. And really, whose fault was that? If Snow had shown up like she was supposed to, I wouldn’t have needed alternative entertainment.
Then Paris. I’d had Nicolette send Snow all the details — departure time, what to pack. The Darlington private jet sat on the tarmac, ready for departure, for forty-five minutes before I finally accepted she wasn’t coming.
But I’d pivoted. That’s what successful men do. Called Ashleigh, who was more than happy to fill the empty seat. The weekend wasn’t a total loss — the shopping on the Champs-élysées, the champagne-fuelled nights at the hotel, at least someone appreciated the gesture.
Still, Snow’s silence is baffling. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
The flowers should have softened her. The dinner invitation should have shown her I’m willing to make an effort.
Paris should have swept her off her feet.
That’s how it always works. Grand gestures. A little romance. Women always fold.
Except Snow isn’t folding.
But tonight will be different. Snow has to come — she’s on the committee, and she doesn’t like to let people down. That’s her weakness. Her need to be responsible, reliable, perfect. She’ll be here.
And when she sees me, sees us together in front of everyone who matters, she’ll remember what we are.
What we’re supposed to be. Then I can get her alone, explain everything.
Yes, the divorce papers cite adultery and that post-nup draft, but those are misunderstandings.
I can make her see that. The post-nup was just something Beaumont pushed on me.
Peer pressure, really. I never intended to actually use it.
And the affairs? She’s being dramatic. Every man in our circle has certain…
arrangements. It’s just how things are done at this level.
She’s the one I actually love. Once I explain it, she’ll understand.
“Preston!” Charles Handers claps me on the back, his breath already heavy with whiskey. “Heard some ridiculous rumors about you and Snow. Don’t tell me you’re letting that beautiful wife of yours get away.”
I force my most confident smile. “Just a minor misunderstanding, Charles. You know how emotional women can get. We’ll have it sorted out soon enough.”
“Good man. Snow’s a treasure. Way out of your league, if you ask me.” He laughs at his own joke and moves on, leaving me with a slight sting of irritation.
Out of my league? Please. I’m the one who transformed her from a naive hippie’s daughter into Manhattan society material. I taught her which fork to use, which designers to wear, how to navigate conversations with real power players. She should be grateful.
Then I see her.
My breath actually catches in my throat.
Snow is standing near the silent auction tables, and she is…
luminous. She’s wearing a midnight blue gown that hugs her curves perfectly — not the modest, safe styles I usually prefer her in, but something bold, sophisticated.
Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, showcasing the diamond earrings I bought her for our third anniversary. She looks like a queen.
More importantly, she looks like mine.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear someone mutter behind me. “Who is that?”
I turn to see two of Charles’s business partners staring at my wife with undisguised appreciation.
“That’s Snow Darlington,” the other one says. “Preston’s wife. Lucky bastard.”
“She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. What’s she doing alone?”
My jaw clenches. What is she doing alone? She should be standing beside me, where she belongs. I stride across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of donors and board members, my focus locked on reclaiming what’s mine.
“Darling,” I say, sliding up beside her and placing my hand on the small of her back. The contact sends a familiar thrill through me — she’s always been electric to touch. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
She turns, and for a moment, I’m looking into those incredible hazel eyes that first captivated me all those years ago. But there’s something different now. A coolness.
“Hello, Preston,” she says politely, as if I’m an acquaintance rather than her husband.
“I was hoping we could sit together tonight,” I murmur, leaning close enough that anyone watching will see the intimacy. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
She steps slightly away, but her smile never wavers. Always the perfect Darlington wife. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of company.”
Before I can respond, Margaret Whitfield appears beside us, her face bright with excitement. “Snow! Darling! You look absolutely radiant. That dress is divine.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You look wonderful, too.” Snow’s warmth toward Margaret is genuine, natural. The way she used to be with me.
“And Preston,” Margaret continues, “you must be so proud. I heard Snow’s planning to start her own consulting business. Brilliant idea, helping those small sustainable companies compete with the big corporations. She’s always been so sharp with strategy.”
Business? Snow hasn’t mentioned anything about a business.
“Yes,” I say carefully, “she’s always been very… enterprising.”
Margaret beams. “Well, I’ve already given her my card. Once you’re up and running, Snow, my daughter’s organic skincare line could use exactly the kind of strategic thinking you’d bring. I’d love to connect you two.”
Snow nods gracefully. “I’d be happy to discuss it with her, Margaret. I’m still in the planning stages, but I should be ready to take clients soon.”
As Margaret moves on, I stare at my wife. A consulting business? Since when? And how is she planning to fund it? I don’t have access to her accounts anymore — another thing I need to fix once this divorce nonsense is over. “Snow, what’s this about a consulting firm?”
“Something I’ve been planning,” she says simply, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“When? Where? How are you funding it?”
Her smile is serene, unreadable. “I have an MBA, Preston. I’m not incapable of managing my own affairs.”
The words sting more than they should. Before I can respond, the evening’s program begins, and we’re separated by the crowd moving toward their assigned tables. I watch her glide through the room, greeting people with genuine warmth, completely at ease in a world I’d taught her to navigate.
Throughout dinner, I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s seated three tables away, and I notice how animated she becomes talking to the couple beside her. She’s laughing — really laughing — in a way I haven’t seen in years. When did she stop laughing like that with me?
The speeches and video presentation about the hospital’s new wing feel endless. I sit through them with forced attention, my focus constantly drifting back to Snow. Finally, the lights come up and the band starts playing. People begin moving toward the dance floor, and I see my opportunity.
I approach her table just as she’s setting down her champagne glass.
“Dance with me,” I say, leaning down close to her ear. “Like we used to.”
She hesitates for just a moment, then nods. On the dance floor, I pull her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, the one I had my assistant buy her for our anniversary.
“I love you,” I murmur against her temple, making sure my voice carries to the couples around us. “I’ve been an idiot, Snow. Let me make this right.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away either. Encouraged, I continue my performance.
“Remember our honeymoon in Tuscany?” I say, loud enough for others to hear. “You said you’d never been happier. We can have that again.”
“That was a long time ago,” she says quietly.
“Not that long. You’re still my beautiful wife. My Snow.” I spin her gently, and she follows my lead with the grace I’ve always admired. “Everyone’s watching us, you know. They can see how perfect we are together.”
They are watching. I can feel their eyes on us, probably thinking what a romantic couple we make.
The Darlingtons, working through their little rough patch with love and elegance.
Every marriage has rough patches — that’s what I told Charles when he brought up the rumors.
If anything, it makes me more relatable.
The devoted husband fighting for his marriage.
While I’d prefer our private matters stay private, this public reconciliation isn’t hurting my image.
If anything, women are probably swooning over my romantic gestures, and the men are nodding with understanding.
We’ve all been there, their expressions seem to say. Marriage takes work.
As the song ends, Snow steps back. “I need to powder my nose,” she says.
“I’ll wait right here.” I watch her walk toward the powder room, admiring the sway of her hips in that stunning dress. Several men’s eyes follow her as well, and I feel a surge of possessive pride. She’s mine. Whatever this divorce nonsense is about, tonight proves we belong together.
“Beautiful wife you have there, Preston,” says a voice behind me.
I turn to see David Thornfield, a hedge fund manager I’ve been courting for months. “Thank you, David. She is rather spectacular, isn’t she?”
“How long have you been married?”
“Six wonderful years. Best decision I ever made.”
David nods appreciatively. “You’re a lucky man. Hold onto that one.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. What’s taking her so long? I’m about to go check when I see her emerging from the powder room. But instead of coming back to me, she’s walking toward the coat check.
She’s leaving?
I catch up with her just as the attendant hands her a black wrap.
“Snow, where are you going? The evening’s barely started.”
She turns to face me, and something in her expression makes my blood run cold. “A word of advice, Preston. Next time you want to play the devoted husband in public, you might want to make sure your mistresses aren’t in the same room as your wife.”
My mouth goes dry. “What?”
“I overheard an interesting conversation.” Her voice is calm, conversational, as if she’s discussing the weather.
“Two women were discussing their recent… encounters… with a married man. Very detailed descriptions. Very specific details. Imagine my surprise when I realized they were talking about my husband.”
The words hit me like ice water. “Snow, I don’t know what you think you heard—”
“One of them mentioned the birthmark on your left shoulder. The other described that little thing you do with your tongue.” She tilts her head, almost curious.
“They were comparing notes, Preston. Laughing about how your wife — that would be me — obviously wasn’t taking care of your needs since you were so… hungry… for their attention.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.
“They mentioned dates, Preston. Last weekend. Monday afternoon. While you were sending me flowers and leaving voicemails about how much you love me.” She adjusts her wrap with perfect composure.
“One of them said you told her I was frigid. That I didn’t understand you.
The other one said you told her we have an open marriage. An open marriage, Preston?”
“Snow, please, let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain. I just wanted you to know that I know. That your performance tonight — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A performance? — was wasted effort.”
She walks away, her head held high, leaving me standing there as my entire world crumbles around me. But it’s not over. It can’t be over. She’s just… testing me. Seeing how far I’ll go to prove my love. This is all part of her plan to make me appreciate her more.
Isn’t it?
I watch her disappear into the night, and for the first time since this whole nightmare began, a cold tendril of real fear creeps up my spine.
What if she really means it? What if she’s actually done with me?