Chapter 9
A framed photograph from our wedding.
A designer watch I had bought him after his first promotion.
A painting he had insisted on hanging because important clients occasionally visited.
Every object seemed connected to the version of our marriage that existed for other people.
I entered the bedroom.
My side of the closet was filled with dark dresses.
High-backed dresses.
Safe dresses.
Clothes selected according to what Preston could bear to see.
At the very back hung a crimson evening gown I had bought before the fire.
I touched the fabric.
It was beautiful.
And entirely wrong for the body I had now.
I had never thrown it away.
Perhaps some part of me had believed that if I waited long enough, my old life would come back.
The front door opened.
"Vivian?"
Preston.
His footsteps crossed the apartment.
I closed the closet.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway, loosening his tie.
"You're home early."
"I had an appointment."
"Fine."
His eyes traveled toward the bed, where the gala invitation lay beside my handbag.
He picked it up.
"Oh. You saw this."
"Yes."
He scanned the dress code.
Then he laughed.
"Well, that's unfortunate."
I watched him.
"Unfortunate?"
"You know what I mean."
"No. Explain it."
His expression tightened.
"Don't make this difficult."
"Why shouldn't I attend?"
He stared at me as though I had asked something absurd.
"Vivian, it's a very high-profile event."
"I'm aware."
"There'll be photographers. Investors. Important people."
"I know."
He exhaled impatiently.
"Have you considered how people might react?"
My chest tightened.
"To what?"
He looked away.
"Your back."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I wanted to ask him whether the people at that gala knew I had burned my body saving his life.
I wanted to ask whether they would be disgusted by the scars or by the man who was ashamed of them.
But I kept my voice calm.
"The dress code has been changed."
He frowned.
"What?"
"Guests can wear whatever formal clothing makes them comfortable."
His face hardened.
"Who changed it?"
"Management."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Annoyance.
Perhaps concern.
Then he shrugged.
"It doesn't matter. You'd be uncomfortable anyway."
He dropped the invitation onto the bed.
"Honestly, you should stay home."
I looked at the man I had married.
The man who had just left another woman's arms.
The man planning to divorce me the moment his equity became secure.