Chapter 1
Snow
Ipractice my smile in the antique mirror, the one Preston’s mother, Bitsy, calls “a charming relic.” The woman staring back at me is a stranger in a designer dress. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a carefully constructed curve of the lips, a mask of contentment I’ve perfected over six years of marriage. I wonder when I stopped recognizing my own face. When I traded Snow Holloway for the polished, hollow version of Mrs. Preston Darlington III.
My heart gives a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. It’s Thursday evening. Dinner with the Darlingtons. A weekly ritual of quiet judgment and veiled insults, served on bone china with silver that’s been in the family since the Mayflower, or so Bitsy claims.
I smooth down the silk of my navy dress, a color Preston approved because it’s “appropriately subdued.” My own preference for vibrant, living colors — the saffron yellow of my favorite sundress, the deep magenta of a scarf my mother knitted for me — is tucked away in the back of my closet, alongside the rest of my personality. I take a deep, fortifyingbreath, the air tasting stale and recycled, and descend the grand, curving staircase.
The Darlington estate is massive, a sprawling monument to old money and older pride. Preston and I live in our own wing, but we’re connected to his parents’ section through this grand entrance hall with its soaring ceilings and cold marble floors. The whole place feels more like a prison than a home.
Preston is waiting at the bottom of the staircase, scrolling through his phone, his thumb moving in a relentless, impatient rhythm. He looks up, his cold eyes doing a quick, critical scan from my sensible heels to my understated pearl earrings. He adjusts his cufflinks, a nervous tic he mistakes for a power move. “Good. You’re on time.” He offers his arm, his touch cool and proprietary, not an invitation but a summons. “Mother and Father are already in the dining room.”
The dining room is a cavern of mahogany and history, dominated by a portrait of Preston’s great-grandfather looking sternly down his nose at all who dare to eat in his presence. The air is thick with the scent of lemon polish, hothouse lilies, and old money.
“Snow, darling,” Bitsy says, her voice thin and sharp as a needle. She air-kisses the space beside my cheek, the scent of her Chanel No. 5 clinging to me like a shroud. “That dress is… suitable.”
“Thank you, Bitsy,” I say, my practiced smile clicking into place. “You look lovely.”
She does, in a terrifyingly preserved way. Not a single blonde hair out of place, her diamonds catching the light of the chandelier with cold fire. Preston’s father, Preston Bradford Darlington Jr. — though everyone calls him Bradford, never Brad, because Bitsy says shortened names are uncouth — finally looks up from his phone, his expression one of profoundboredom. He grunts from the head of the table, a sound that serves as his standard greeting.
Dinner is a masterclass in passive aggression, and I am its primary subject. Bitsy recounts the latest triumphs of my sister-in-law, Muffy, whose son just got accepted into a preschool that apparently has a twenty-year waiting list. My own career, the one I was so proud of before Preston convinced me to abandon it, is never mentioned. It’s a ghost at the table, a reminder of a version of me I can barely recall.
“I saw you had to sell off a few acres last year,” Bradford says suddenly, his first direct address to me all evening. He stabs a piece of asparagus with surgical precision. “For the taxes, I assume. Farming is such a… quaint profession. Unpredictable.”
The casual disdain for my parents, for the rich, dark soil they’ve cultivated my entire life, sends a hot spike of anger through my chest. I grip the stem of my water goblet, my knuckles white. “My parents love what they do,” I say, my voice dangerously even. “They find value in things beyond a stock portfolio.”
Preston pats my hand, a gesture that looks affectionate to his parents but feels like a clamp on my wrist. A warning. “What my wife means,” he says, his smile not reaching his eyes, “is that she’s very proud of her family’s… rustic charm. Aren’t you, darling?”
My smile feels brittle enough to crack. “Of course.”
“I ran into Carol Lynn today,” Bitsy says, seamlessly changing the subject back to my failings. “She was asking why we haven’t seen you at the club lately. I told her you’ve been… resting.”
The implication hangs in the air. That I’m fragile. Delicate. That the hippie’s daughter is still struggling to keep up with the pace of their world. My own parents, Rain and River, would behorrified. They raised me to be strong, to question authority, not to sit silently while being belittled.
“I’ve been busy helping Preston prepare for the hospital gala,” I reply smoothly. It’s a safe, approved activity for a Darlington wife.
Later, as we’re having coffee in the drawing-room, Preston leans back. He’s in his element now, holding court. “My new assistant is working out splendidly. An absolute shark, and drop-dead gorgeous too.” He says with a certain relish, watching me for a reaction. “She’s stunning. A real distraction around the office. Ambitious, too. Reminds me of you, back in your MBA days.”
The comparison is a deliberate cruelty. He’s reminding me of the ambition he systematically extinguished. I should feel a flicker of something, jealousy perhaps. Instead, I feel… nothing. A strange, hollow calm. The part of me that should care has been dormant for years. “That’s nice,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “Is she competent?”
Preston’s brow furrows. It’s not the reaction he expected. He was fishing for insecurity, a spark of the drama he seems to crave and despise in equal measure. My genuine indifference puzzles him.
“She’s got an MBA from Pace,” he says, a little defensively. “Of course, she’s competent.”
I nod, letting the topic die. I don’t care about his new assistant, who is “a real distraction around the office”. I don’t care about the club or the gala or Muffy’s overachieving toddler. I don’t care about any of it.
Back in our bedroom, the silence is a heavy blanket. It’s a vast, opulent space, decorated in shades of beige and cream, a room with no personality. Preston is in his dressing room, and I’m mechanically going through my nightly routine. I remove myjewelry, placing it in a velvet-lined box. I wipe the makeup from my face, revealing the pale, tired woman underneath.
I’m about to climb into my side of the king-sized bed, the acre of mattress that separates us every night, when I see it. Preston’s phone, lying face-up on his nightstand. The screen is still glowing. He must have just set it down before stepping into the shower, too arrogant or distracted to think I’d ever dare look. He never leaves it unlocked. Never.
My heart starts that heavy thud again, but this time it’s faster. A nervous, frantic rhythm. I glance toward the dressing room door. I can hear the shower running. This is my window. Maybe my only window. A voice in my head, the one that sounds like Bitsy, tells me to walk away. To be a lady. But another voice, a whisper I haven’t heard in years, the one that sounds like Snow Holloway, says,Look.
I pick up the phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop it. The screen is open to a text thread. Not with a man’s name. Not with “Tennis Lessons”. Oh no, the contact is Hot Ass, who I assume is his assistant based on what I’ve read. He’s been droning on about “my new assistant” for months now — he does this with all of them, never bothering to learn their names since they rarely last more than a year. Just refers to them as “my new assistant” until the next one arrives. Never mentions her actual name, just how hot or distracting she is. Just like he did tonight.
My breath catches as another text comes in. I scroll up, my thumb clumsy.
Hot Ass: He’s buying it. Merica thinks I’m just your loyal assistant who feels bad for him.
