Chapter 2
"Put on a robe, Vivian," he snapped one evening when I stepped out of the bathroom. "You're repulsive."
I stood frozen, water still dripping from my hair.
He didn't apologize.
Instead, he glanced at the raised scars beneath my shoulder and added, "I don't understand why you insist on walking around like that."
Like that.
As though my body were an insult I had deliberately placed in front of him.
After that, I learned to dress before leaving the bathroom.
I bought high-necked blouses and loose sweaters.
I stopped wearing the beautiful evening gowns Preston used to admire.
When we attended corporate functions, I chose dresses with covered backs and smiled whenever photographers asked us to stand closer.
I told myself he was struggling with memories of the fire.
I told myself trauma could make people cruel.
I told myself marriage meant patience.
Five years passed while I searched for excuses to explain why the man I had saved could barely stand to look at me.
That morning, staring at the invitation, I finally began to understand.
The dress code wasn't an accident.
Someone wanted me to choose between exposing the part of myself I had spent years hiding and staying away from the most important corporate event of the year.
And I had a terrible suspicion about who that someone was.
I rose from my desk and walked toward Preston's office.
We both worked at Ashford Capital, one of New York's most prestigious private investment firms.
I was a senior risk strategist.
Preston was a director in the investment division, rapidly approaching the partnership level he had spent years pursuing.
To people outside the company, we looked like a successful couple.
A handsome executive.
A devoted wife.
A marriage that had survived tragedy.
Only I knew how little of that image remained when we went home.
As I approached his office, I heard a woman's laughter.
Cassidy Vaughn.
Our communications director.
Beautiful, polished, effortlessly charming, and always perfectly dressed.
For months, she had been taking an unusual interest in my marriage.
She appeared at Preston's desk more frequently than her responsibilities required.
She found excuses to touch his arm.
And whenever we attended office dinners, she made a point of mentioning how difficult it must be for a successful man to live with someone who no longer enjoyed public appearances.
I had noticed.
Of course I had noticed.
But noticing something and allowing yourself to believe it are two different kinds of pain.