6. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
Twelve days until our anniversary.
I count them like a prisoner marks walls, each one a notch closer to freedom or damnation.
Hugo and I have settled into a careful choreography of avoidance, passing through the same spaces without occupying them together.
He takes his coffee in the study now. I eat breakfast standing at the kitchen counter.
We sleep in the same bed but on opposite edges, a gulf of cold sheets between us that neither of us tries to cross.
He’s trying. I can see him trying.
He comes home earlier than he used to, though not early enough.
He asks about my work, though his eyes drift to his phone mid-answer.
He bought flowers last week, real ones, from a florist, not a guilt offering delivered by assistant, and I thanked him politely and put them in a vase and felt nothing.
That’s the worst part, I think. The nothing.
I used to feel everything about Hugo, hope and longing and frustration and desire, the whole messy spectrum of loving someone who doesn’t know how to love you back.
Now I feel like I’m watching our marriage through glass, a spectator to my own life.
The warmth I used to offer so freely has been switched off at the source, and I don’t know how to turn it back on.
I’m not sure I want to.
“The Children’s Hospital gala is tonight,” Hugo says over breakfast on day twelve, his voice carefully neutral. “The one we committed to months ago. I know things have been… difficult. But I think we should still go.”
I take a sip of coffee without looking at him. “Why?”
“Because we said we would. Because it’s for charity. Because…” He hesitates. “Because I think it would be good for us to be seen together. The narrative right now is… it’s not great.”
“The narrative.” I set down my cup. “You mean the one where you’re tragically in love with your ex-girlfriend and your wife is a jealous obstacle?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what the internet means. It’s what every tabloid and gossip blog and fan account has been saying for weeks.
” I finally meet his eyes, and I’m gratified to see him flinch.
“You want to go to a gala full of industry people so we can pretend everything’s fine.
So they can all whisper about us behind champagne flutes and wonder if the rumors are true. ”
“I want to go to a gala because we made a commitment. And because…” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture achingly familiar. “Because I miss being somewhere with you. Doing a normal thing together that isn’t this.”
He gestures between us, at the cold careful distance that’s become our default.
I should say no. I should tell him I’m not interested in being a prop for his public image rehabilitation, that I’m done performing the role of supportive wife while he decides whether he actually wants to be my husband.
But there’s a raw edge in his voice that cuts through my defenses, and despite everything, I’m not ready to give up completely.
Not yet. Not until the anniversary.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m wearing whatever I want.”
“You always wear whatever you want.”
“Tonight I’m going to enjoy it.”
***
The gown is emerald green.
I designed it six months ago, during a period when I was experimenting with color and structure and the particular way fabric can transform a body into a statement.
It’s architectural without being severe, fitted through the bodice with a dramatic sweep of silk from hip to floor.
The back is low, scandalously low, held together by delicate gold chains that catch the light when I move.
I didn’t design it to make a point. But standing in front of the mirror now, makeup done and hair swept into an elegant twist, I realize it’s going to make one anyway.
This is not the gown of a woman who’s been defeated.
Hugo knocks on the bedroom door at seven, and I call for him to enter without turning around. I’m fastening the earrings my mother left me, small diamonds, nothing ostentatious, when I feel him stop in the doorway behind me.
The silence stretches.
I turn finally, and the look on his face is the only review the dress needs.
His jaw has gone tight. His hands are frozen at his sides, halfway through adjusting his cufflinks, and he’s staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Or maybe like he’s remembering what he forgot.
“You look…” He stops, swallows.
“I know.”
I pick up my clutch and walk toward him, watching his eyes track the movement of the silk, the way the chains on my back shift and glitter.
“We should go,” I say, brushing past him into the hallway. “We don’t want to be late.”
He follows me down the stairs without another word, and I feel his gaze on my bare back the whole way.
Good, let him look.
Let him remember what he’s been neglecting.
The gala is held at a restored theater in Hollywood, all gilt and velvet and old-money elegance. We arrive to a carpet of photographers and a receiving line of sponsors, and I watch Hugo slide into his public persona like a costume, charming smile, easy laugh, gracious handshakes all around.
I’ve always admired his ability to perform. I just wish I knew whether any of what he shows me is real.
Inside, the theater has been transformed into a wonderland of white flowers and candlelight, round tables draped in ivory linen, a string quartet playing a classical piece in the corner.
It’s beautiful and tasteful and exactly the kind of event where everyone is watching everyone else while pretending not to.
Half the industry is here. Record executives and producers, artists and agents, the whole ecosystem of people who make their living from music. I recognize faces from Hugo’s album release party, from award show after-parties, from the endless circuit of events that constitute his professional life.
And I see them recognizing me. See the quick glances, the leaned-in whispers, the particular expression people get when they’re looking at someone they’ve been reading about in tabloids.
Hugo’s hand settles on my lower back, on the bare skin above the chains, and I feel the warmth of his palm like a brand.
“Ignore them,” he murmurs close to my ear. “They’re just curious.”
“They’re deciding if I’m the villain or the victim.”
“You’re neither.”
“Tell that to them.”
A waiter passes with champagne, and I take a glass without slowing my pace. We make our way through the crowd, Hugo stopping to greet people while I stand at his side and smile and pretend I can’t hear every other conversation circling back to the same topic.
“…the video was everything, did you see…” “…more chemistry than I’ve ever seen from him…
” “…and the wife just stood there and took it, apparently…” “…I heard she showed up on set and made a scene…” “…someone told me Ginny’s people leaked the song on purpose…
” “…wouldn’t surprise me, she’s always been ambitious… ”
I drink my champagne and keep my face neutral and imagine throwing my glass against the nearest wall.
“Mrs. Kensington.” A woman materializes at my elbow, blonde and polished and dripping with diamonds. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Margot Sullivan. My husband produces for Latitude Records.”
Hugo’s label. Of course.
“Lovely to meet you,” I say, and the words taste like ash.
“I just wanted to say…” Margot leans closer, voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “I think you’re handling everything so gracefully. I don’t know how you do it. If my husband were making music videos with his ex-girlfriend, I’d be absolutely devastated.”
“Would you?”
“Well, of course. The chemistry between Hugo and Ginny is just…” She fans herself dramatically. “You can’t fake that kind of connection, can you? It must be so difficult, watching them together and knowing that history is always going to be there.”
I take a slow sip of champagne, giving myself time to choose my words.
“The wonderful thing about acting,” I say finally, “is that it’s not real. My husband comes home to me every night. He sleeps in our bed, wears the ring I put on his finger, and spends his free time trying to make me happy.” I tilt my head, letting my smile turn lethal. “Does yours?”
Margot’s face goes pale.
“I… I didn’t mean…”
“Of course you didn’t.” I pat her arm, the gesture dripping with false warmth. “Enjoy the gala.”
I walk away before she can recover, weaving through the crowd toward the bar, my heart pounding with a mix of triumph and exhaustion.
That felt good. It also felt hollow.
Because the truth is, I’m not sure Hugo does spend his free time trying to make me happy. I’m not sure he knows how. I’m not sure any of the pretty defenses I just threw at Margot Sullivan are actually true.
I get another champagne and find a quiet corner near a marble column, watching the room glitter and spin around me.
“That was impressive.”
I turn to find a woman about my age leaning against the column, dark hair, knowing eyes, a glass of red wine in her hand.
“The takedown of Margot Sullivan,” she clarifies. “She’s been insufferable for years. Someone needed to put her in her place.”
“I wasn’t trying to put anyone in their place.”
“Sure you weren’t.” The woman extends her hand. “I’m Tess. I manage a few artists on the indie side of things. Nothing as big as your husband, but I know the industry well enough.”
“Lucille.”
“I know who you are.” Tess takes a sip of wine.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t buy the Ginny Davies narrative.
I’ve watched that woman climb over people for years.
She’s talented, sure, but she’s also ruthless.
The leak, the video, the way the whole thing has been orchestrated, it has her fingerprints all over it. ”
A chill runs through me. “You think she engineered this?”
“I think she saw an opportunity and took it. The question is whether your husband is in on it or just collateral damage.” Tess shrugs. “Either way, I’d watch your back. Ginny doesn’t give up easily, and she clearly wants access to Hugo that she hasn’t gotten yet.”