The invitation came in the form of a text message.
"There's something Saturday night. A few friends. Some people from the firm." it read. No emoji. No follow-up.
Still, she clung to it.
Hope was a tenacious thing, fragile, yes, but defiant. Even when it shriveled, it wrapped around her ribs and refused to let go. Even when it wore a mask and spoke in someone else's voice.
So she dressed with care. A midnight-blue silk gown that kissed her skin with every step, with a modest neckline and an open back that whispered elegance, not desperation. She pulled her hair into a low twist, fingers trembling, then pinned it with a sapphire comb her mother once said made her eyes look braver.
It didn't, not tonight.
The venue was a rooftop, glass-walled, glittering with low light and clinking ice, the kind of place that smelled like old money and whispered ambition. The kind of place where people knew how to step over others without spilling their champagne.
She arrived early. Too early.
The doorman looked at her with the barest flicker of surprise before checking the guest list. "Mrs. Blaine," he said, and opened the door like it meant nothing.
The name felt like a costume someone else had worn first.
Inside, laughter floated like smoke. Jazz curled through the air, warm and indifferent. She moved carefully, weaving through linen-covered tables and people who glanced at her with half-curious, half-pitying eyes. She didn't take a drink. She didn't sit. She simply waited.
And waited.
Until the elevator chimed.
She turned instinctively, already smiling before she could stop herself.
Cole stepped out.
With Vivien.
Her hand was hooked into the crook of his arm like it had always belonged there. Like Jade had never been part of the picture to begin with.
Vivien wore red.
Not a shade. A weapon. The kind of red that shattered silence and swallowed spotlights. The kind of red a woman wore when she wanted to be seen, and to make sure someone else wasn't.
Jade's breath caught.
For a second—just a second—Cole's expression faltered. A flicker of confusion.
Then irritation. Cold and cutting, like a reprimand.
"Jade?" His voice was low, flat. "What are you doing here?"
People turned. Heads tilted. Phones dipped. Smiles twisted.
She blinked. "You said I should come."
Vivien's eyes lit with mock surprise, her voice dripping with saccharine regret. "Oh no. You didn't get the follow-up? Cole meant it was just for colleagues. So awkward…"
Jade stared at her. "You messaged me."
Vivien tilted her head, her smile gentle, pitying—poisonous. "Did I? Must've been a mistake. I send so many messages. Occupational hazard."
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd like spilled wine.
Someone near the bar whispered, "That's her? The wife?"
"Didn't know she was still around."
"She's pretty. In a… tragic sort of way."
The words landed like needles under her skin. Jade's spine stiffened, but her hands had started to tremble. The lights above, once warm, now felt surgical, exposing every crack in her carefully held mask.
Cole didn't speak.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't touch her.
Didn't even look at her again.
Vivien gave her arm a soft, theatrical squeeze. "But since you're here… try the caviar. It's imported."
Imported. Like her shame.
Jade looked at Cole one last time.
There was nothing in his eyes. No regret. No apology. Just that look, that detached discomfort, like she was a shadow cast where no one wanted shade.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "I won't stay. I wouldn't want to… make anyone uncomfortable."
No one stopped her.
No one cared.
She turned. The click of her heels echoed against the marble floor like countdowns in a dream you know ends badly. Someone laughed again, sharp and familiar.
Vivien.
She didn't cry in the elevator.
Not even when the doors closed on Cole and the life she had tried so hard to hold together.
But once she reached her car, her hands curled into fists in her lap, the sapphire pin pressing hard into her palm. A bruise bloomed across her dignity, hot and aching.
And for the first time, truly and bitterly, she wanted out.
Out of the dress.
Out of the lies.
Out of the marriage that had become a performance she never auditioned for.
Because no matter how gracefully she tried to endure it, no matter how carefully she walked the line between dignity and devastation.
Tonight made one thing cruelly, irrevocably clear.
She had never belonged beside him.
And no one—not even the man she married, had remembered she could bleed.