6. Lucille #2
I’m not sure what to say to that. It’s everything I’ve suspected, laid out plainly by a stranger who has no reason to lie.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because someone should, and no one in this industry will.” Tess finishes her wine. “Good luck, Lucille. You’re going to need it.”
She disappears into the crowd, and I stand there with my champagne going warm in my hand, feeling like the floor has shifted beneath my feet.
I make it twenty more minutes before I need to escape.
The conversations are endless, the sympathetic glances unbearable.
A music journalist corners me to ask if I’d consider doing an interview about “my side of the story.” A stylist wants to know if I designed my own dress and then spends ten minutes explaining why emerald is “such a brave choice” for someone in my position.
Everyone has an opinion about my marriage and none of them have the decency to keep it to themselves.
I text Hugo, bathroom, need a minute, and slip away from the main hall into a quiet corridor that leads to the facilities.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. I lock myself in the farthest stall, press my palms against my eyes, and breathe.
This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. Every person in that room is looking at me and seeing a woman whose husband chose someone else on national television, and no amount of emerald silk is going to change that perception.
I think about Tess’s words, about the flowers on my doorstep. I think about Hugo’s face when he saw me in this dress, the way his breath caught, and I wonder if it matters at all when the whole world has already decided our marriage is over.
My phone buzzes. Hugo’s name on the screen.
Where are you? Are you okay?
I stare at the message for a long moment, then silence my phone and drop it back into my clutch.
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t know anything anymore except that I have twelve days until our anniversary and this hollow feeling in my chest keeps growing and I’m so tired of being strong.
I stay in the stall until my breathing steadies and my eyes stop burning. Then I splash cold water on my face, fix my makeup, and walk back into the corridor.
Hugo is waiting outside the bathroom.
He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his bow tie slightly askew, and his face is wrecked, pale and strained and tight around the eyes in a way that tells me he’s been standing here worrying for however long I was gone.
“I texted,” he says. “You didn’t answer.”
“I needed a minute.”
“A minute is different from twenty.” He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. “Lucille, talk to me. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just…” I wave a hand vaguely. “Everyone in there is staring at me like I’m an exhibit at a museum. ‘The wife who got publicly humiliated, let’s see how she handles it.’ I needed air.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks on the words. “I hate what this is doing to you. I hate watching you hurt and knowing I’m the reason.”
“Then stop doing it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” I step closer, close enough to see the pain in his eyes, close enough that he could touch me if he wanted to.
He doesn’t reach for me. “You keep saying you don’t have a choice.
You keep saying the label is forcing your hand, the contract is a trap, there’s nothing you can do.
But you’re Hugo Kensington. You have more power than anyone else in that ballroom.
If you wanted to walk away from this, you could. ”
“And lose everything I’ve built?”
“Is everything you’ve built worth more than everything we have?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence stays between us, charged with everything we’re not saying.
“I’m trying,” he says finally. “I know it doesn’t look like it. I know I keep failing. But I’m trying, Lucille. Every day I’m trying to figure out how to fix this.”
“Trying isn’t the same as doing.” I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “Twelve days, Hugo. That’s how long you have. And then I need to know where I stand.”
“You stand with me. You’ve always stood with me.”
“Have I? Because lately it feels like I’ve been standing alone.”
Before he can respond, a door opens behind us and a woman in a headset appears, looking harried.
“Mr. Kensington, there you are. The photographer needs you for the donor photos. The label’s people specifically requested…”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“Sir, he’s a major sponsor. The label insisted…”
Hugo closes his eyes, and I watch the war play out across his face. The obligation pulling him one direction. The wife pulling him another.
I already know which one will win.
“Go,” I say quietly. “They need you.”
“Lucille…”
“I said go.” I step back, putting distance between us. “I’ll be at the table.”
He hesitates for one long moment, his hand reaching toward me like he wants to close the gap, and then the woman with the headset says a few urgent words about sponsors and timing, and his hand falls back to his side.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Five minutes.”
“Sure.”
He follows the publicist down the corridor, glancing back at me once before he disappears around the corner.
I stand there in the empty hallway and count to ten, waiting for the sting to fade.
It doesn’t.
I go back to the ballroom and find a waiter with champagne.
The table is easy to locate, our names are on little gold cards at two of the place settings, and I sink into my chair with the kind of relief usually reserved for marathon runners crossing a finish line.
My feet are killing me. My face hurts from smiling.
And I’ve got at least another hour of this before I can reasonably claim exhaustion and escape.
Hugo’s seat remains empty.
Five minutes becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty.
I drink my champagne and watch the room, and I listen.
“…the whole thing with Ginny is genius marketing, honestly. Derek knows what he’s doing…”
I go still.
At the table behind me, close enough that I can hear clearly but far enough that they don’t notice me listening, two men are deep in conversation.
Industry types, by the look of them, expensive suits, confident postures, the particular self-importance of people who make decisions about other people’s careers.
“The timing couldn’t be better,” one of them says. “The anniversary interview is going to dominate the news cycle for a week at least. Everyone loves a good reunion narrative.”
“Anniversary interview?” The other man sounds confused. “I thought the talk show was the last obligation.”
“That was before the video went viral. Now the label wants to ride the wave as long as possible.” A laugh.
“They’ve got Hugo and Ginny doing a joint feature for the anniversary week push.
A piece about reflecting on their creative partnership, where they’ve been, where they’re going. Very intimate, very emotional.”
“And the wife?”
“What about her?”
“Doesn’t she get a say? I mean, scheduling that kind of romantic content during their actual wedding anniversary seems…”
“Strategic.” The first man’s voice is dry. “The company doesn’t care about the wife. They care about streams. And right now, Hugo-and-Ginny content is outperforming everything else by a factor of three.”
I set down my champagne glass with careful precision.
Their anniversary interview. The label’s anniversary week push.
Our anniversary. The one I’ve been counting down to. The one where Hugo is supposed to prove that I matter more than his career.
They’ve scheduled a romantic publicity event with his ex-girlfriend during the week of our wedding anniversary.
And Hugo didn’t tell me.
The line I drew, the private deadline I set in my head, starts to feel less like paranoia and more like prophecy.
I stand up from the table, my chair scraping against the floor loud enough that the men behind me go quiet. I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge that I heard anything.
I just walk toward the exit, my emerald gown trailing behind me like a battle flag.
Hugo finds me in the lobby, waiting for the valet to bring my car.
“Lucille, wait, the donor photos took forever, the sponsors wouldn’t stop talking…”
“Did you know?”
He stops mid-step. “Did I know what?”
“About the anniversary week push. The label scheduling romantic content with you and Ginny during the week of our wedding anniversary.” I turn to face him, and I see the answer in his expression before he even opens his mouth. “You did. You knew and you didn’t tell me.”
“I was going to tell you. I’ve been trying to get them to change the date…”
“Trying isn’t good enough, Hugo.” My voice comes out steady, which is a miracle considering how hard my heart is pounding. “You’ve had weeks to tell me. You’ve had every opportunity to be honest about what was coming. Instead, I had to hear it from strangers gossiping at dinner.”
“It’s not what you think. The anniversary timing was Derek’s idea, not mine. I’ve been fighting it since they first proposed…”
“Then fight harder.” The valet pulls up with my car, and I take my keys from his hand. “Or don’t. But I’m done being the last person to know what’s happening in my own marriage.”
“Lucille, please…”
I get in the car and close the door.
Through the window, I can see Hugo standing on the sidewalk, his bow tie still askew, his face stricken. He looks like a man watching a precious thing slip through his fingers.
For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.
Then I remember the men at the table. The label doesn’t care about the wife.
Neither, apparently, does my husband.
I pull away from the curb and drive home alone, and the whole way there I’m thinking about anniversaries and deadlines and the particular cruelty of timing.
Twelve days.
I gave him twelve days to prove that I matter.
And the label has already decided to spend those days proving that I don’t.
The line I drew is starting to look less like a boundary and more like a fault line, the place where everything is about to crack apart.