12. Chapter 12
Elowen
The drive to my new apartment from the shelter is a blur of nervous energy. For the first time in eight years, I am preparing for a high-profile event without a strategic briefing for my husband first. I’m only accountable to myself. Well, and the shelter, of course.
I stand before my closet. The racks are significantly lighter now. Bypassing the conservative, stiff gowns Julian always favored, I pull out a deep emerald silk dress.
Armed with Beatrix’s business cards and a fierce protective instinct for the animals in my digital portfolio, I drive to the gala.
Once there, I slip through the entrance, taking in the glittering chandeliers, the crystal flutes of champagne, the murmuring crowd dressed in wealth.
I’ve seen it all before. This time, I feel so different from the perfect corporate wife with the perfect straight hair and the perfect silent smile.
My newly cut waves frame my face, my button nose bare of the contouring makeup I used to wear.
The security guard at the door does a double-take when I hand over my ticket. I see the moment of recognition in his eyes and the quick assessment of my altered appearance.
“Mrs. Plaza,” he says.
“Actually, I go by Fallinger now.”
“Ah. That explains a lot.”
It does? I suppose since Julian and I arrived separately, it would. No matter.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
I step into the ballroom, bracing myself. This space holds memories in every corner, flat with Julian’s rules. I can still hear him instructing me on which board members to charm and when to extract myself from conversations with grace.
My fingers instinctively reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray as someone shouts, “Elowen!”
The voice belongs to Margaret White, the wife of Julian’s golf partner. She descends upon me to air-kiss both my cheeks.
“You look different,” she says, the pause containing volumes. “I love the hair. So brave of you.”
Brave. As if cutting my hair was akin to climbing Everest. But perhaps, in the world we inhabited together, it is an act of courage to look like yourself.
“Thank you, Margaret. It’s good to see you.”
“We’ve all been wondering if you’d come tonight. You know”—she looks around, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—“after everything.”
So they do know. I wonder if they assume I’m having a midlife crisis or a mental breakdown.
“I wouldn’t miss supporting the children’s hospital,” I say. “The work they do is important.”
Margaret’s expression shifts to sympathy. “Of course. And how are you doing? Really?”
Eight years ago, I would have given the expected answer: “Fine, thank you.” Four weeks ago, I would have smiled through gritted teeth and changed the subject.
Tonight, I look her directly in the eyes as I explain how I’m volunteering for the animal shelter and how eager I am to continue to support our community in this new capacity.
She blinks, unprepared for my direct response and careful pivot. Before she can recover, I excuse myself and move deeper into the crowd.
Similar exchanges follow. Tara Jones, whose husband runs the accounting firm Julian uses, wants to know if I’m “coping okay.” Joseph Brenner, a potential investor Julian’s been in-talks with, awkwardly offers condolences as if someone has died.
Each interaction confirms what I already suspected, which is how my departure from Julian has become the latest subject of speculation.
Meanwhile, I reframe the narrative as trying new experiences and putting my skills to better use at the shelter.
After gosh knows how long, I scan the room, instinctively searching for Julian in his preferred spot near the back exit.
For years, he positioned himself there. It’s close enough to the door for a quick escape if needed, and far enough from the stage to avoid unwanted attention.
Strategic, like everything else about him.
But the back corner holds only a cluster of minor executives I vaguely recognize. There’s no Julian. Perhaps he didn’t come after all.
I can experience this event as myself, do some networking for the shelter, donate to the children’s hospital, appreciate the art displayed by young patients, and leave without the confrontation I’ve been dreading.
It’s not that I haven’t spoken to Julian at all—he’s called the children every night—but this will be the first time I’ve actually seen him.
Since I don’t see him in the back, I exit the main hall and make my way to the children’s artwork display in the entryway.
This was always my favorite part of the gala.
Julian would walk past these paintings without a glance, focused on who might be watching us enter.
Meanwhile, I always lingered, trying to absorb the hope and resilience captured in clumsy brushstrokes.
Once, I gently touched my favorite piece, and Julian shuddered and made me wash my hands. “Too many germs,” he’d said. He touches what he must and avoids what is optional.
Tonight, I take my time. There’s a painting of a green dragon breathing a bright rainbow of fire, a collage of a family holding hands, and a magazine cutout depicting a hospital room where the medical equipment has been reimagined as superheroes.
“The kids outdid themselves this year,” a voice says beside me.
I turn to find Dr. Collins, the hospital’s head of pediatric oncology. Unlike the others, her smile seems genuinely warm rather than curious or pitying.
“They always do,” I reply, my voice softening. “This one’s my favorite.” I point to a painting of a small girl with no hair, surrounded by stars.
“Sophia drew that,” Dr. Collins says. “She finished her final round of chemo last month.”
Something loosens in my chest. “That’s amazing. I take it she’s okay?”
“Yes, she’s in remission with an excellent prognosis.”
I nod, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. With renewed purpose, I return to the main hall and move through the crowd toward the donation table. That’s when I see them.
They’re positioned prominently at a table near the front, and the absolute center of attention.
Julian, in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, looks slimmer than when I left.
And beside him, looking radiant in a gown that hugs every perfect curve, is Carmella Ruiz—the very woman Julian compared me to; the woman who scored higher in “physical appearance” and “social connections.” I haven’t seen her since that night.
Julian’s hand rests at the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively against the fabric of her dress.
It’s a gesture I’m used to myself. He used to guide me through rooms the same way.
She’s everything I’m not. She’s tall where I’m average, sleek where I’m soft, angular where I’m rounded.
And apparently, what is most important, her nose is straight and narrow, exactly as Julian prefers.
While sitting together, Carmella leans close to him, laughing at something he’s said. Her perfect face tilts toward his, dark hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her neck. I can’t breathe. The room blurs at the edges, colors smearing as my focus narrows to Julian’s hand on Carmella’s back.
He’s already moved on.
I blink back tears, refusing to let them fall here. My champagne glass trembles in my hand, and I quickly set it down on a nearby table before I drop it.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I raise my chin, let my shoulders drop back, and breathe deeply. If Julian wants a show, I’ll give him one. Not the one he’s expecting, though. Not the heartbroken ex-wife, but the woman who’s finally finding herself after years of careful erasure.
But God, it hurts to watch his fingers press against the fabric of her dress, to see the easy confidence with which they claim their space together, to recognize how quickly he can pretend I never existed.
I move through the crowd with grace, the kind Julian spent years perfecting in me.
“Glide, don’t walk,” he used to say. “You’re not rushing to catch a bus.
” My stride carries me toward them before I’ve fully decided what I’ll do.
Some part of me wants to make a scene, to demand answers in front of everyone.
But the larger part, the one growing stronger every day, knows that I don’t need his explanations anymore.
I don’t need anything from Julian Plaza, except his duties as a father.
Julian notices me when I’m halfway to their table.
I see the exact moment recognition hits him as his back stiffens, his hand freezes on Carmella’s spine, and his smile falters.
To anyone else, the reaction would be imperceptible, but I’ve spent a decade studying Julian’s micro-expressions, learning to anticipate his needs before he voices them.
I know what surprise looks like on his face.
He hadn’t expected me to come tonight. He thought I’d be home with the children, far from this world I’m no longer supposed to be part of. Carmella follows his gaze, and her eyes narrow when she spots me. Her hand slides possessively to Julian’s arm, staking her claim.
“Elowen,” Julian says as I approach. He says my name the way he always has. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Clearly.” I keep my voice neutral, my gaze steady. The old Elowen would have looked away, would have shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Not anymore.
Julian stands. “It’s why I invited Carmella to join me.”
“Sounds about right.”
Carmella remains seated, staring at us. Her crimson lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Elowen, it’s been too long,” she says, though we just saw each other two months ago. “Love what you’ve done with your hair. Very brave.”
There’s that word again. Brave. As if authenticity is an act of courage rather than a basic human right.
“Thank you,” I reply as my only response, refusing to engage with her further.