5. Chapter Five
Chapter five
Inés
The gala arrives faster than I can prepare for it, even though it's the biggest event I've ever planned. It feels like it's happening to someone else, like I'm watching my own life unfold from the outside.
I spend weeks running around like a madwoman, coordinating with vendors, finalizing guest lists, making sure every detail is perfect. But no matter how much I do, I can't shake this feeling that something isn't right.
And in the haze of my planning, Margaux is everywhere, of course. Always by Harrison's side, always one step ahead of me. She seems to have taken over as his right-hand woman, handling everything from media outreach to author relations with an effortless grace that makes my blood boil.
But I can't say anything, not now. Not when the whole publishing world is watching, waiting to see what Locke like he knows there's so much more going on between us than just a gala.
"Yeah," I say, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."
The days since I found that photo album have been a meandering mess.
I haven't mentioned it to Harrison yet; I can't find the right words.
Instead, I've been trying to keep busy with work, throwing myself into the gala preparations, even though it feels like I'm planning a celebration for a life that isn't really mine anymore.
But now, as we step out of the apartment and into the night, there's no more avoiding the truth.
I look up at Harrison, feeling a surge of love and resentment all at once.
He is my husband, but he feels so far away sometimes.
Like he's standing on the other side of a glass wall, and I can see him, but I can't touch him.
I want to tell him how I feel. That I'm scared and confused and hurt by everything that's happened these past few months. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is:
"Are you excited for tonight?"
He smiles down at me, oblivious to the turmoil inside me. "It's going to be great," he says, taking my hand as we walk toward the car waiting at the curb. "Everyone's going to be talking about this for years."
I nod and try to share his enthusiasm, but all I can think is that I hope I'm still a part of this world when they do.
***
The ballroom is already buzzing with energy by the time we arrive. The lights are dim, the music playing softly in the background. Everywhere I look, there are famous faces—authors, agents, editors—all dressed in their finest and ready to celebrate.
I take it all in from the doorway for a moment, trying to catch my breath. This is what I've been working toward all these years: a night like this, where Locke he is, after all, the face of Locke it's exactly what I envisioned when I first started planning this event.
But there's another part of me, a voice in my head that keeps whispering, Is this really what you want? To be invisible in your own life?
A young woman approaches me during one of these sidelining moments, clutching a glass of wine like a lifeline. She's dark-skinned, with short natural hair and eyes that are wide and earnest behind slim glasses. She can't be more than twenty-five.
"Mrs. Locke?" she says, a little breathless.
"I'm Clara; Clara Ndaba. I'm an assistant editor at Pinnacle Press?
I just wanted to say..." She pauses, visibly gathering courage.
"I've read everything you've edited. The Augustine collection, the Fallow reissues…
all of it. You're the reason I got into publishing. Seriously."
I blink, startled. No one has ever said that to me at one of these events. Usually I'm the one fetching drinks or checking place cards.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely touched. "That means a lot."
She fumbles in her clutch and produces a business card, holding it out to me with both hands, like an offering. "I know this is forward, but if you ever...I mean, if there's ever anything..." She trails off, blushing.
I take the card and tuck it into my clutch. "I'll keep it," I say, and I mean it. She smiles like I've given her a gift, and then she's gone, swallowed back into the crowd.
I stand there for a moment, holding the warmth of that small encounter, before the voice in my head starts up again.
And as much as I try to push that voice away, it gets louder with every passing minute. By the time dinner is served and the speeches start, I'm barely holding it together.
Harrison is at the podium, charming everyone with his wit and humility, making sure to thank all the right people. And when he mentions Margaux, praising her for her invaluable contributions to our recent success, my heart sinks into my stomach.
She smiles up at him from the front row, looking proud and poised. The picture of the perfect partner.
I look down at my hands, twisting the napkin in my lap as tears prick at my eyes. I've never felt more alone than I do in this moment, surrounded by people who should be celebrating with me but are too busy admiring someone else.
The worst part is, I can't even blame them. Margaux has worked hard to be where she is, just like I did. She's smart, talented, and charismatic—everything they want in a leader.
But so am I, dammit! So why doesn't anyone see that? Why do I always end up on the sidelines, watching someone else take credit for my hard work?
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss it when Harrison finishes his speech and turns to introduce the next person. I look up, expecting to see my name on the screen, ready to accept my moment in the spotlight.
But instead, Margaux's face fills the screen, and Harrison says her name like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"And now, I'd like to introduce the woman who has truly transformed Locke & Burgess over the past few months: our creative consultant, Margaux Deneuve."
The room erupts in applause as she stands and makes her way to the stage. I can only sit there, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears.
This can't be happening. Not here. Not now.
Margaux takes the podium, smiling brightly as she thanks Harrison and the crowd. And then, with the confidence of someone who knows she's in her element, she begins to talk about our plans for the future of Locke & Burgess.
But it's not our plan anymore. It's hers. And as she speaks, I realize that this is what she's been building toward all along: a future where I'm just a footnote in someone else's story.
I watch, numb, as the night continues without me.
As Harrison and Margaux take their rightful place at the center of it all.
Suddenly, I find myself on my feet while everyone is seated, entranced by Margaux's words.
My hands are shaking and my throat is tight, and I need to get out of this room before I fall apart completely.
But then, from the corner of my eye, I see something that stops me cold: Cynthia, sitting at a table near the back of the room, watching everything unfold with a smug smile on her face. She knows what she's done. She knows what they've all done, and she's enjoying every minute of it.
The words that roiled in my throat, the thoughts I couldn't articulate in my marriage or to Judge Vasquez-Holt... They suddenly crystalize into something solid.
They can't do this to me. Not anymore.