Chapter 8 Abbie
ABBIE
The Beverly Wilshire ballroom is packed with the most important people in my industry, and I can't get anyone to zip my dress. In the venue bathroom, I twist my arms behind me, trying to reach the last two inches of my gown’s zipper.
"Oh, honey, here." A woman I don't know materializes behind me, and before I can protest, she's got the zipper halfway up. "There. These things always require a second person."
"Thank you." I catch her eye in the mirror, and she winks.
"Good luck tonight. My money's on the Elliot campaign."
Someone noticed my work. The ballroom is a sea of black and jewel tones when I slip into my assigned seat. Wren's already there, vibrating with barely contained excitement.
"You look insane," she whispers as I sit. "Like, genuinely unfair levels of gorgeous."
"The dress is doing all the work."
"The dress wishes. The dress is just trying to keep up." She grabs my hand under the table, squeezing hard enough that I feel her rings press into my skin. "Seriously, Abbie. You're glowing. It's disgusting and I love it."
"I'm sweating. That's not the same as glowing."
"It absolutely is when you're wearing couture." Wren leans closer, lowering her voice. "Okay, I have it on good authority that Creative Campaign is third. After Innovation in Talent Development and whatever bullshit networking award Preston Webb is getting."
"Webb is getting an award?" I make a face. "For what, aggressive glad-handing? Competitive business-card distribution?"
"For 'Building Community Bridges in Entertainment,' which sounds fake but is apparently a whole thing. I think he donated to someone's nephew's film festival and they invented a category to thank him."
"Community bridges," I repeat flatly. "Preston Webb once told me my marketing strategy was 'cute' and then asked if I could get him coffee."
"Did you?"
"I got him decaf and told him it was regular. He complained about being tired for a week." I allow myself a small, vindictive smile. "It was the highlight of my February."
Wren cackles, loud enough that the woman at the next table shoots us a look. She doesn't care. She never cares. It's one of my favorite things about her.
"The Elliot campaign was good," I admit. "It was really good."
"It was fucking brilliant is what it was.
That short film concept? The way you tied his music to visual storytelling without making it feel like a glorified ad?
Every person in this room with half a brain knows you reinvented artist branding with that campaign.
" She squeezes my fingers again. "You built that.
From nothing. Every frame, every choice. "
"Wren."
"I know. I know, we're not talking about it. But I'm allowed to be proud of you, okay? I'm allowed to think you're extraordinary and also be furious that certain people couldn't rearrange their schedule to be here for the biggest night of your career."
The empty chair beside me feels suddenly enormous. I don't look at it. I've been very carefully not looking at it all night.
"He texted," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. "This morning. From Milan."
"Oh, he texted. From Milan. Well, that makes everything fine then." Wren's sarcasm could strip paint. "What did it say? 'Congratulations on your professional achievements, I'm very busy being important in Europe'?"
"'So proud of you. Kill it tonight.'" I saved it, because it's the most attention he's paid me in weeks and I'm hoarding it like it means something.
"Seven words." Wren holds up her fingers, counting. "Seven whole words for the wife he supposedly adores. Meanwhile, I once saw him write a fourteen-page email about font choices for a quarterly report."
"That's different. That was work."
"So is this. This is your work. This is the work you do for his company, the work you give everything to, the work that made VTG's creative department the best in the industry." Her voice drops, fierce and protective in a way that makes me want to cry. "And he couldn't get on a plane?"
"The Milan thing was scheduled months ago."
"The award was scheduled months ago too. He knew about it. He just didn't prioritize it."
I don't have an argument for that. There isn't one.
"You turned thirty-one a little over two weeks ago. What did he do?"
The question lands like a punch. I don't answer. I don't have to. We both know what he did, which was nothing.
"Abbie." Wren's grip on my hand turns gentle. "You deserve someone who shows up. You know that, right?"
"He's my husband."
"That's not an answer."
"I know." I blink hard, refusing to let my mascara run on what's supposed to be my night. "I know it's not. Can we just... can we talk about something else? Tell me about your terrible dating life. Distract me."
She studies my face for a long moment, clearly debating whether to push. Then she sighs and leans back in her chair.
"Fine. But only because you asked nicely and also because my dating life is genuinely catastrophic.
" She takes a sip of champagne. "I went out with a guy last week who spent forty-five minutes explaining cryptocurrency to me and then tried to split the check down to the penny.
He calculated the tax separately. He had an app. "
"No."
"He had an app, Abbie. He showed me a pie chart."
I laugh despite myself, the sound surprising us both. "A pie chart."
"Of our meal. Broken down by category. Apparently my salad was in a different tax bracket than his steak."
"Did you see him again?"
"I told him I was moving to Antarctica to study penguins.
He asked if there was good WiFi." She grins, delighted by her own story.
"I blocked him in the Uber home. My therapist says I need to stop agreeing to dates with men from apps, but my therapist has also been married for twenty years, so what does she know about the hellscape of modern romance? "
"Nothing good, apparently."
"Nothing good. It's all pie charts and cryptocurrency bros and guys who want you to be impressed that they read one book this year." She waves her hand dismissively. "Meanwhile, you're here, looking like a goddess, about to win an award for being brilliant, and I get to say I knew you when."
"You've known me for years."
"Years of watching you be the smartest person in every room. Years of you making me look good by association." She clinks her glass against mine. "I'm riding your coattails to the grave, Montgomery. Get used to it."
"That's beautiful. Truly. I'm touched."
"You should be. I don't offer to ride just anyone's coattails." She winks, then glances at her phone. "Okay, they're about to start the Innovation in Talent Development thing, which means we're two awards away. You ready?"
"No." Yes. Terrified. My stomach feels like it's trying to exit through my throat. "It's just an award."
"It's recognition for the best work you've ever done, and you deserve it, and everyone in this room knows it." Wren's eyes are fierce, the joking gone. "Even if certain people couldn't be bothered to show up."
I don't wince, but it's close. Gray's absence is a physical thing, an empty chair beside me that might as well be spotlit. The lights dim again. The speeches drag through dinner. I barely touch the food.
The doors at the back open. The energy changes, a murmur spreading through the tables nearest the door, heads turning, whispers multiplying. I know before I look.
"Abs." Wren's grip on my hand turns painful. "Abs, don't freak out."
"I'm not freaking out."
"He's here."
My heart stops. Genuinely stops, for one terrible beautiful second. "What?"
"Back of the room. He looks like death warmed over, I think he slept in that tux, but he's here. He must have flown back from—"
I turn. Gray is standing against the far wall, jet-lagged and rumpled, his tux wrinkled from what had to be a twelve-hour flight. His dark hair is a mess. There are shadows under his light blue eyes that weren't there at the cocktail party. He's looking at me.
He’s looking only at me.
"Creative Campaign of the Year," the announcer says, "celebrates innovative storytelling that redefines how we connect talent with audiences."
I tear my gaze away from Gray. Focus. This is my moment. Mine.
"This year's nominees represent the very best of our industry's creative vision—"
The list of names washes over me. I hear mine somewhere in the middle, followed by polite applause from my table.
"And the winner is..." The pause lasts approximately seventeen years. "Abigail Montgomery-Valentine, for the Elliot Rebranding Campaign."
Wren screams and pulls me to my feet. Our table erupts. Onstage, I take the trophy in both hands. Heavy, solid, real.
This is mine. I did this. I built this. I look for Gray at the back of the room.
"Thank you so much," I start, gripping the mic. "I want to first acknowledge my incredible team—"
Footsteps behind me. I don't turn fast enough. By the time I register what's happening, Delaney is already on the stage, already reaching for the microphone, already pulling it from my hands like it's a hairbrush she's borrowing.
"Sorry to interrupt." Her voice carries over the speakers, sweet and apologetic. "I know this is my sister's moment, but I just couldn't wait any longer to share some news."
The room falls silent.
"I'm pregnant." Delaney presses a hand to her stomach, beaming at the audience. "And the father is Grayson Valentine."
The silence shatters. A ballroom full of people waits to see what I’ll do.
Two tears fall. Just two. I'm human. But only two, because I'm Constance Montgomery's daughter and we don't break in public.
Delaney leans close, her lips brushing my ear. "You couldn't keep his attention, huh?"
The shield comes up.
It's the one I built at nine, when my mother told me crying was "pedestrian" and my father looked through me like I was furniture. The one that got me through boarding school, through my parents' cruelty, through every moment of my life when falling apart wasn't an option.
I take the microphone back. My hand stays steady.
"I want to thank my sister," I say, clear and calm, "for waiting until the exact moment I was being honored for my work to make her announcement." I smile. It doesn't reach my eyes. "I guess when your best accomplishment is my husband's seconds, you take the stage you can get."
A gasp ripples through the audience. Delaney's face goes white.
I turn to the room, still smiling that terrible smile. "Enjoy the open bar, everyone. I built it."
At our table, Wren's hands are pressed over her mouth, and her eyes are shining with savage pride.
I walk off the stage with the trophy in my hand.
I don't look at the back of the room. I don't look for Gray.
I note, somewhere in the part of my brain that's still functioning, that he doesn't take the stage.
He doesn't take the microphone. He doesn't deny it. He doesn't defend me.
I note that too.
The hallway is empty. The parking structure is ahead. I keep walking, heels clicking on marble, and I don't let myself feel anything at all.