Chapter 5 #2
With Chloe.
She'd gone straight from eviscerating me at the bar to asking my husband to dance, and he'd said yes. He was holding her the way he'd held me just minutes ago, his hand on her lower back, her body pressed close to his, and they were laughing together like they didn't have a care in the world.
I stood frozen, watching them sway together under the crystal chandeliers. Watching his hand drift lower on her back. Watching her whisper something in his ear that made him throw his head back with laughter.
The room seemed to narrow around me. I was vaguely aware of people watching, of whispers behind hands, of eyes cutting between me and the dance floor with barely concealed excitement. The drama. The scandal. The aging wife watching her husband dance with the beautiful young assistant.
I was the entertainment.
Maxinet appeared beside me, her hand gentle on my arm. "Julianne. Are you alright?"
"No." The word came out surprisingly steady. "No, I don't think I am."
The song ended. Lewis and Chloe separated, but his hand lingered on her arm. She said something to him, batting her eyelashes, and he nodded with that indulgent smile I used to think was reserved only for me.
Then he walked back to our table.
Without me.
He didn't look for me. Didn't check to see where I was. Just returned to his seat and picked up his drink and continued his conversation with Coen Park like nothing had happened.
Like I didn't exist.
Chloe caught my eye from across the room. She raised her champagne glass in a tiny, mocking toast.
Something inside me went very, very quiet.
Not numb. Not broken. Just... still. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air goes heavy and the world holds its breath.
I walked across the ballroom toward my husband. My heels clicked against the marble floor. People parted to let me pass, sensing something in my expression that made them step back.
Lewis looked up as I approached, his smile fading as he registered whatever he saw on my face.
"Jules? What's wrong?"
"We need to talk." My voice didn't sound like mine. It was too calm. Too controlled. "Now."
"Can it wait? Coen and I were just discussing..."
"No." I took his arm, my fingers digging into the fabric of his tuxedo. "It cannot wait."
I led him away from the table, away from the watching eyes and the whispered speculation, toward a quiet alcove near the coat check. The sounds of the gala faded behind us, replaced by the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Julianne, what the hell is going on with you tonight?" Lewis pulled his arm free, his expression caught between concern and irritation. "You're acting crazy."
"I'm acting crazy." I laughed, and it came out bitter. Broken. "That's perfect. That's absolutely perfect."
"You've been glaring at Chloe all night, you're drinking whiskey like water, and now you're dragging me away from important conversations. So yes, you're acting crazy."
"Your assistant showed up wearing a copy of my dress.
She stood at that bar and told me my time was up.
She said you haven't touched me in weeks, that you confide in her, that you stay late to avoid me.
And then she asked you to dance, and you said yes.
In front of everyone. In front of your colleagues and your competitors and everyone who matters to your precious fucking career. "
Lewis's jaw tightened. "She asked me to dance. It would have been rude to say no."
"Rude?" I stared at him. "You were worried about being rude to her? What about being rude to me? Your wife? The woman who's been standing alone at your table while you spin another woman around the dance floor?"
"You're overreacting. It was one dance."
"It's never one thing with her, Lewis! It's the texts and the visits and the dinner party and my job and now this. It's death by a thousand cuts, and you're handing her the knife!"
"Keep your voice down." He glanced around, checking to see if anyone was listening. Always worried about appearances. Always more concerned with what people thought than what I felt.
"No." I stepped closer to him, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the flicker of unease in his eyes.
"I'm done keeping my voice down. I'm done being the reasonable one.
I'm done watching you choose her over me, again and again, while you tell me I'm paranoid and jealous and crazy. "
"Because you are!" His composure finally cracked, his voice rising to match mine.
"You're so obsessed with this girl that you can't see straight.
She's my assistant, Julianne. That's all.
And your constant jealousy is exhausting.
It's pathetic. It's making me wonder if there's something seriously wrong with you. "
The words hit like fists. Obsessed. Pathetic. Something wrong with me.
"She told me you confide in her." My voice shook. "She said you stay late to avoid coming home. Is that true?"
Lewis's silence was its own answer.
"Oh my God." I pressed my hand to my stomach, suddenly nauseous. "You've been talking to her about our marriage. You've been telling her our problems."
"I needed someone to talk to. Someone who actually listens instead of attacking me every time I walk through the door."
"I'm your wife!" The word tore out of me like a sob. "I'm supposed to be the person you talk to! Not her, not some girl who's been trying to fuck you since the day she started working for you!"
"Jesus Christ, Julianne." Lewis ran his hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. "Listen to yourself. You sound unhinged. You sound like a bitter, jealous woman who can't accept that her husband has a professional relationship with an attractive colleague."
"Professional." I laughed again, and this time it sounded like breaking glass. "Is that what you call dancing with her at a black-tie gala while your wife watches? Professional?"
"I'm done with this conversation." He started to turn away. "You can either come back to the table and behave like an adult, or you can stand here and wallow in your delusions. Your choice."
"Lewis." I grabbed his arm. "Lewis, please. Just look at what's happening. Look at what she's doing. I'm not making this up. I'm not imagining things. She's trying to destroy our marriage, and you're letting her."
He looked at me then. Really looked. And what I saw in his eyes made my blood run cold.
Pity. Contempt. Exhaustion.
Not love. Not concern. Not even anger.
Just the weary tolerance of a man who'd already decided I wasn't worth fighting for.
"I think you should go home, Julianne." His voice was quiet now. Gentle. The kindness of a man putting down a sick animal. "Get some rest. We can talk about this tomorrow when you've calmed down."
He pulled his arm free and walked away.
Back toward the ballroom. Back toward the music and the lights and the woman in the burgundy dress who was waiting for him with a smile.
I stood in that alcove, surrounded by fur coats and the distant sounds of celebration, and felt the last thread holding me to my marriage snap.
He'd left me. Not literally, not yet, but in every way that mattered.
He'd left me standing alone.
And I finally understood that no amount of love, no amount of history, no amount of fighting was going to bring him back.