I had forgotten that advice for four years. Tonight, I was remembering it.
When I stepped into the grand ballroom, a live jazz band was playing a smooth, upbeat melody. The room was packed with over a hundred people: elite investors, bankers, Sterling relatives, and sycophants who had learned to smile and look the other way.
At the very center of the dance floor, Alexander was dancing with Chloe.
She was wearing the antique emerald ring.
Her beige silk dress clung tightly to her pregnant belly, and Alexander was holding her waist with theatrical, protective tenderness. Eleanor watched them from a velvet armchair, sipping champagne and beaming like a queen presiding over a royal succession. Guests whispered behind their hands, but no one intervened. Wealth teaches rooms how to tolerate absolute cruelty.
Alexander spun Chloe gently, laughing. He was glowing with arrogance, completely certain that I was at home weeping into a pillow, preparing to sign away the last piece of my dignity.
Then, his eyes drifted across the room and locked onto me.
His smile instantly froze. The color drained from his face.
Chloe followed his gaze, and her hand flew to her throat in panic. Eleanor’s grip tightened so hard on her champagne flute I thought the crystal might shatter.
I didn’t walk toward my husband. I walked directly toward the soundboard at the edge of the stage.
The young audio technician looked at me, confused. I held up my hand.
“Turn it off,” I commanded softly.
“Ma’am, Mr. Sterling said—”
“I said, turn the music off.” I didn’t yell. I didn’t have to. Something in my eyes made the boy swallow hard and hit the master switch.
The music died abruptly, ending with a jarring screech.
The silence that fell over the ballroom was instant and suffocating. Alexander released Chloe so quickly she stumbled backward. I picked up the microphone from the stand, turned around, and faced the sea of elite guests.
Every single eye in the room was on me.
I looked dead at Alexander.
