How humiliating.
I felt every eye in the ballroom lock onto me, waiting for me to break. They wanted tears. They wanted screaming. They wanted me to throw champagne, slap Brooke, beg Ethan, or run from the room with mascara streaking down my face.
Instead, I lifted my water glass and took a slow sip.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
Brooke’s smile faltered.
I placed the glass down carefully. “Congratulations,” I said.
The word was soft, yet somehow it carried across the entire ballroom.
Ethan blinked. “Claire—”
“No,” I said, still smiling. “Please. Don’t ruin your moment.”
Brooke’s expression shifted. Only briefly. But I saw it.
Fear.
Because women like Brooke understood anger. They understood jealousy. They understood public humiliation. What they did not understand was a wife who had just been betrayed in front of Chicago’s business elite and looked almost relieved.
I stood, smoothed the front of my black dress, and picked up my clutch.
Ethan reached beneath the table and grabbed for my wrist. “Don’t make this ugly.”
I lowered my eyes to his hand until he released me.
Then I leaned close enough that only he could hear.
“You already did.”
I walked out of that ballroom with my pearls against my neck, my back straight, and every whisper following me through the golden doors.
