“Darling,” I say, sliding up beside her and placing my hand on the small of her back. The contact sends a familiar thrill through me — she’s always been electric to touch. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
She turns, and for a moment, I’m looking into those incredible hazel eyes that first captivated me all those years ago. But there’s something different now. A coolness.
“Hello, Preston,” she says politely, as if I’m an acquaintance rather than her husband.
“I was hoping we could sit together tonight,” I murmur, leaning close enough that anyone watching will see the intimacy. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
She steps slightly away, but her smile never wavers. Always the perfect Darlington wife. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of company.”
Before I can respond, Margaret Whitfield appears beside us, her face bright with excitement. “Snow! Darling! You look absolutely radiant. That dress is divine.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You look wonderful, too.” Snow’s warmth toward Margaret is genuine, natural. The way she used to be with me.
“And Preston,” Margaret continues, “you must be so proud. I heard Snow’s planning to start her own consulting business. Brilliant idea, helping those small sustainable companies compete with the big corporations. She’s always been so sharp with strategy.”
Business? Snow hasn’t mentioned anything about a business.
“Yes,” I say carefully, “she’s always been very… enterprising.”
Margaret beams. “Well, I’ve already given her my card. Once you’re up and running, Snow, my daughter’s organic skincare line could use exactly the kind of strategic thinking you’d bring. I’d love to connect you two.”
Snow nods gracefully. “I’d be happy to discuss it with her, Margaret. I’m still in the planning stages, but I should be ready to take clients soon.”
As Margaret moves on, I stare at my wife. A consulting business? Since when? And how is she planning to fund it? I don’t have access to her accounts anymore — another thing I need to fix once this divorce nonsense is over. “Snow, what’s this about a consulting firm?”
“Something I’ve been planning,” she says simply, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“When? Where? How are you funding it?”
Her smile is serene, unreadable. “I have an MBA, Preston. I’m not incapable of managing my own affairs.”
The words sting more than they should. Before I can respond, the evening’s program begins, and we’re separated by the crowd moving toward their assigned tables. I watch her glide through the room, greeting people with genuine warmth, completely at ease in a world I’d taught her to navigate.
Throughout dinner, I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s seated three tables away, and I notice how animated she becomes talking to the couple beside her. She’s laughing — really laughing — in a way I haven’t seen in years. When did she stop laughing like that with me?
The speeches and video presentation about the hospital’s new wing feel endless. I sit through them with forced attention, my focus constantly drifting back to Snow. Finally, the lights come up and the band starts playing. People begin moving toward the dance floor, and I see my opportunity.
I approach her table just as she’s setting down her champagne glass.
“Dance with me,” I say, leaning down close to her ear. “Like we used to.”
She hesitates for just a moment, then nods. On the dance floor, I pull her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, the one I had my assistant buy her for our anniversary.
“I love you,” I murmur against her temple, making sure my voice carries to the couples around us. “I’ve been an idiot, Snow. Let me make this right.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away either. Encouraged, I continue my performance.
“Remember our honeymoon in Tuscany?” I say, loud enough for others to hear. “You said you’d never been happier. We can have that again.”
“That was a long time ago,” she says quietly.
“Not that long. You’re still my beautiful wife. My Snow.” I spin her gently, and she follows my lead with the grace I’ve always admired. “Everyone’s watching us, you know. They can see how perfect we are together.”
They are watching. I can feel their eyes on us, probably thinking what a romantic couple we make. The Darlingtons, working through their little rough patch with love and elegance.Every marriage has rough patches — that’s what I told Charles when he brought up the rumors. If anything, it makes me more relatable. The devoted husband fighting for his marriage. While I’d prefer our private matters stay private, this public reconciliation isn’t hurting my image. If anything, women are probably swooning over my romantic gestures, and the men are nodding with understanding. We’ve all been there, their expressions seem to say. Marriage takes work.
As the song ends, Snow steps back. “I need to powder my nose,” she says.
“I’ll wait right here.” I watch her walk toward the powder room, admiring the sway of her hips in that stunning dress. Several men’s eyes follow her as well, and I feel a surge of possessive pride. She’s mine. Whatever this divorce nonsense is about, tonight proves we belong together.
