3. Cassie
— ? —
Cassie
The charity gala is exactly the sort of event I used to love.
The city’s wealthiest donors crowd into a ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers and fresh orchids.
Women in gowns that cost more than most people’s cars.
Men in tuxedos, clutching whiskey and talking about money like it’s the only thing that matters.
I used to thrive in rooms like this, working the crowd, making connections, being the charming wife who made Charles look good by association.
Tonight, I can barely summon the energy to smile.
Part of it is exhaustion, the deep and total tiredness of pretending everything is fine for so long that the pretending has become its own full-time job.
Part of it is knowing that Celine will be here, that I’ll have to watch her orbit my husband in some designer gown he probably has opinions about, that I’ll have to make small talk with people who have no idea my marriage is quietly dying in front of them.
And part of it, the part I don’t want to look at too closely, is that I’ve stopped believing this life is mine to enjoy.
I’m a guest at my own party now, watching from somewhere just outside my own body.
I’m wearing emerald silk, a dress I picked out myself two years ago when Charles still noticed what I wore.
It hugs my curves in all the right places, and the color makes my eyes look greener, more vivid.
When I walked downstairs in it this evening, Charles glanced up from his phone, said “Ready?” and went back to typing.
He hasn’t actually looked at me properly all night. His eyes keep scanning the crowd.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask as we accept champagne from a passing waiter.
“No one. Just seeing who’s here.”
He’s lying. I’ve been married to him long enough to know when he’s lying, and right now he’s doing that thing with his jaw, that slight tension that appears when he’s hiding something and hoping I won’t notice. He’s looking for someone specific, and he doesn’t want me to know who.
I follow his gaze across the room and spot Celine almost immediately. She’s radiant in ice-blue satin, her blonde hair swept up in an elegant twist that shows off her long neck and delicate collarbones. She’s laughing at something, her hand resting on the arm of the man beside her.
Charles’s jaw tightens when he sees them, and I watch him deliberately look away, only to glance back a moment later when he thinks I’m not paying attention. There’s a complicated look in his expression, one I can’t quite read.
“Is that her husband?” I ask.
“Must be.”
I study the man with professional interest. He’s tall, significantly taller than Charles, which I’m certain my husband has noticed.
Dark hair, broad shoulders, the effortless good looks that come from excellent genetics and expensive trainers.
Even from across the room, there’s a magnetic quality to him that makes people turn and look.
He stands like someone who’s used to being the most powerful person in any room, and the confidence radiates off him like heat from a fire.
“Who is he?”
“Elliot Beaumont.” Charles takes a large gulp of champagne, nearly draining the glass. “Tech money. Family money. Basically every kind of money.”
There’s a bitterness in his voice I don’t quite understand. Charles has money too, plenty of it. But Elliot Beaumont has gotten under his skin like no one I’ve seen before.
“We should go say hello,” I suggest. “Since we work with his wife.”
Charles looks like he’d rather eat glass. “Fine. If you want.”
We make our way through the crowd, and I watch Charles carefully as we approach. He’s doing something strange with his posture, trying to stand taller, squaring his shoulders in a way that looks almost aggressive. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.
Celine sees us coming and her expression flickers, just for a moment, a complicated look passing across her face before it settles into a bright smile.
She steps slightly away from Elliot, creating distance that feels deliberate, and I notice that she doesn’t meet Charles’s eyes directly.
They’re standing three feet apart and barely exchanging a glance, which for two people who work together every day should feel natural but instead feels careful, choreographed, like actors who’ve rehearsed how to seem indifferent.
“Charles! Cassie!” Her voice carries a hint of surprise that seems rehearsed. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Charles says, and I notice that he doesn’t quite look at Celine directly either. He’s focused entirely on Elliot, his hand already extended. “Charles Wallace. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Elliot shakes it, his expression politely neutral. “Likewise.”
The handshake goes on a beat too long, Charles gripping harder than necessary, a dominance display that Elliot seems to find more amusing than threatening. When they finally release, Charles flexes his fingers like they’re sore.
“This is my wife, Cassie,” Charles says, gesturing to me almost as an afterthought.
Elliot’s eyes meet mine, and I feel a jolt of unexpected recognition.
He’s looking at me, actually looking, not the dismissive once-over most men give to other men’s wives.
His gaze is steady, assessing, like he’s filing away details for later.
I can’t remember the last time a man looked at me like I was worth paying attention to.
“Mrs. Wallace.” His voice is low, cultured. “Celine’s mentioned you.”
“Has she?”
“All good things.”
I wonder if that’s true. I wonder what Celine has said about the woman who corrects her mistakes and watches her cry into Charles’s shoulder.
“I’ve heard Charles talk about your company,” I say, remembering suddenly the dinner last week when Charles had ranted about Beaumont Industries for twenty minutes straight. “He mentioned your sustainability work.”
Charles stiffens beside me, clearly not pleased that I’ve brought up his obsessive competitor research.
Elliot’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You follow industry news?”
“My husband talks about work.” I don’t add that he mostly complains about competitors, or that Elliot’s name came up more than once in ways that weren’t flattering.
“Elliot’s always working,” Celine sighs, draping herself more firmly on his arm. “I keep telling him he needs to relax more.”
She gazes up at him adoringly, but Elliot doesn’t return the look. He doesn’t react to her touch at all. His posture stays rigid, his expression stays neutral, and his eyes stay fixed somewhere in the middle distance like he’s mentally running through a spreadsheet.
I know that look. It’s the look Charles gives me when I’m talking and he’s stopped listening.
“Darling, why don’t you get us some drinks?” Celine suggests, tugging on Elliot’s arm. “I’m parched.”
He nods once, detaches himself from her grip with what looks like relief, and melts into the crowd without a backward glance.
Celine watches him go, and for just a second, her perfect smile slips. There’s frustration underneath, maybe even anger, that vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“I’m going to go powder my nose,” she announces brightly, not meeting Charles’s eyes. “Charles, Cassie, save my seat?”
She sways off toward the restrooms, and I catch Charles watching her go, his expression unreadable. When he notices me looking, he turns away too quickly, like a child caught reaching for the cookie jar.
“I’m going to find the bathroom too,” I say.
Charles grunts acknowledgment. He’s staring after Elliot Beaumont now, and his jaw is tight with what looks like resentment.
I don’t actually need the bathroom. What I need is five minutes away from my husband’s wounded ego and whatever strange performance Celine and Charles just put on by not acknowledging each other beyond the bare minimum.
I find a quiet hallway near the service entrance, dimly lit and blissfully empty. I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and let myself breathe. The noise of the party fades to a dull murmur, and for the first time all evening, the tension in my shoulders starts to ease.
“Hiding?”
The voice comes from my left, low and amused. I turn to find Elliot Beaumont leaning against the opposite wall, watching me with those sharp green eyes.
“Bathroom break,” I say.
“The bathrooms are in the other direction.”
“Are they?” I don’t move. “Then I must be lost.”
“Must be.” He doesn’t move either. “Though I suspect you’re not the type to get lost easily.”
There’s a quality to how he says it that makes my spine straighten. “What type am I?”
“The type who knows exactly where she is at all times.” He tilts his head, studying me. “And exactly where everyone else is too.”
It’s not a compliment, exactly, but it’s not an insult either. It’s an observation, delivered with the clinical precision of someone who makes a living reading people.
“Your husband seems threatened by me,” he adds.
The directness catches me off guard. “Charles is threatened by his own shadow lately.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Too honest, too revealing, and I brace for awkwardness, for judgment, for the social pivot people do when you accidentally show them something real.
But Elliot just nods slowly, like I’ve confirmed a thing he already suspected.
“Interesting,” he says softly.
“What is?”
“You.” His gaze holds mine, and I feel a weight of attention I haven’t experienced in months, maybe years. He’s looking at me like I’m worth looking at. Like I exist. “You’re very interesting, Mrs. Wallace.”
My heart is beating too fast. I tell myself it’s the champagne, the adrenaline of the evening, the strange intimacy of this empty hallway.
“You don’t seem like the type to hide at parties either,” I say, redirecting.
“I’m not hiding. I’m avoiding.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hiding implies fear. Avoiding is strategic.”
“And what are you strategically avoiding?”
For the first time, his expression shifts, a flicker of weariness before the mask slides back into place.
“The performance,” he says. “Gets exhausting after a while.”
I think about Celine’s adoring gazes, her theatrical sighs, how she clings to him like he’s a prop in her one-woman show. I think about how he stands when she touches him, rigid, tolerant, absent.
“Your wife seems to enjoy it,” I say carefully.
“My wife enjoys many things.” His voice is flat. “My company isn’t one of them.”
It’s a startling thing to say to a stranger, and we both know it. The silence that follows is thick with implications neither of us is quite willing to name.
“I should get back,” I finally say.
“You should.” He pushes off the wall but doesn’t move toward the ballroom. “Mrs. Wallace?”
“Yes?”
“That dress is wasted on a man who doesn’t see it.”
He walks away before I can respond, disappearing around a corner with the same quiet efficiency he does everything.
I stand there for a while, heart pounding, trying to understand what just happened.
Nothing happened. A conversation with a stranger at a party.
Meaningless small talk in a dark hallway.
I’m a married woman and he’s a married man, and the fact that both of our marriages are clearly held together with tape and denial doesn’t change the basic arithmetic of the situation.
Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen.
But my skin still feels too warm, and my pulse won’t settle, and I catch myself replaying the exact tilt of his head when he called me interesting, like it was a category he’d been searching for and finally found.
But as I make my way back to the ballroom, I can still feel his eyes on me. Can still hear his voice saying “interesting” like it was a verdict.
That dress is wasted on a man who doesn’t see it.
I can’t remember the last time Charles looked at me like I was worth the effort of looking.
The drive home is silent except for the radio. Charles insists on driving, even though he’s had four glasses of champagne and his hands are tight on the wheel. I watch the city lights blur past my window and try not to think about green eyes and quiet hallways.
“Did you see his watch?” Charles says suddenly.
“Whose?”
“Beaumont’s. Probably fake. Men like that always overcompensate.”
I don’t respond. The watch was real. I know enough about expensive things to spot the difference. But correcting Charles would only make things worse.
“I looked him up, you know. Beaumont.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “His company’s not even that impressive. And the way women fawn over him, it’s pathetic. He’s probably slept with half of them.”
Still nothing from me. I’m thinking about how Elliot looked at me like I was a puzzle worth solving.
“Are you listening?” Charles snaps.
“Mmm.” I watch the city lights blur past. “You seem very interested in him.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not interested. I’m just saying men like that are all the same. All surface, no substance.”
I think about how Charles dodged my kiss this morning. How he lights up talking to Celine. How I’ve become invisible to him somewhere along the way, a fixture in his house he stopped registering months ago.
“Sure,” I say. “All surface.”
We pull into the driveway, and Charles kills the engine but doesn’t move to get out.
“Stay away from him,” he says.
I turn to look at my husband. His jaw is tight, his eyes are dark, and for the first time in months, there’s real emotion in his voice, real intensity, real feeling directed at me.
But the feeling isn’t love. It isn’t concern. It’s fear, naked and unmistakable, and I don’t understand where it’s coming from.
“Charles, I barely spoke to him. We exchanged maybe ten words.”
“I saw how he looked at you.”
“What way?”
“Like he was interested.”
I want to laugh. I want to ask Charles when the last time was that he looked at me with interest, with desire, with anything other than mild irritation or benign neglect.
But I’m tired. And the fight has drained out of me somewhere between the empty hallway and the cold silence of our car.
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
I go inside alone. By the time Charles follows, I’m already in bed, turned away from his side.
He climbs in without a word. The mattress shifts as he settles on the far edge, as far from me as he can get without falling off.
The room is dark and quiet, and I wait for him to say something, anything, to reach for me or acknowledge that I’m here.
He doesn’t.
Just before I drift off to sleep, I find myself wondering what Elliot Beaumont is doing right now, and whether he’s lying awake in the dark too, thinking about a conversation that shouldn’t have meant anything but did anyway.