“Of course, sir.” Nicolette unties them with quick, efficient movements, and for just a moment, as she gathers the ribbons, I swear that almost-smile is back on her face.
I pause at the wedding photo still face-down on my desk. “Time to put on a show, Mrs. Darlington,” I mutter. “Charm offensive starts now.”
I turn the photo to face outward — a loving husband with his wife’s picture prominently displayed for all to see.
“Send them in, Nicolette.”
She nods once, balloons trailing behind her as she heads for the door. “Of course, sir.”
Chapter 5
Preston
The Marriott ballroom is glittering with Manhattan’s elite, and I’m in my element. Black tie, champagne flowing, the annual Children’s Hospital Gala — exactly the kind of event where the Darlington name commands respect. I adjust my bow tie and scan the crowd, searching for that familiar honey-blonde hair. Nicolette double and triple-checked Snow’s confirmation of attendance. Any moment now, she’ll walk through those doors, and this nightmare will finally end.
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of silence since I was served with those ridiculous divorce papers. And that humiliating scene with the singing telegram — I’m still finding glitter in unexpected places. I’d had to spend the rest of the day pretending it was funny, laughing it off as a joke. But the damage was done. People talked. They always talk.
The flowers arrived the next day — I had Nicolette confirm delivery. Two dozen red roses with that French message that always melted her. Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even an acknowledgment.
The dinner reservation at that trendy bistro where everyone would see us? I’d even had a dress delivered to wherever she’s staying — it took Nicolette digging through Snow’s credit card statements to find the address, but she managed it. Something appropriate, elegant, a clear message that I know her taste better than she knows herself. Nicolette confirmed Snow received the invitation, including the time and location. I’d arrived fifteen minutes early, positioned myself at the best table where I’d be seen. Waited. Nothing.
The waitress had been pretty, though. Blonde, leggy, impressed by the platinum Amex. The penthouse suite at the hotel next to my office hadn’t gone to waste that night. And really, whose fault was that? If Snow had shown up like she was supposed to, I wouldn’t have needed alternative entertainment.
Then Paris. I’d had Nicolette send Snow all the details — departure time, what to pack. The Darlington private jet sat on the tarmac, ready for departure, for forty-five minutes before I finally accepted she wasn’t coming.
But I’d pivoted. That’s what successful men do. Called Ashleigh, who was more than happy to fill the empty seat. The weekend wasn’t a total loss — the shopping on the Champs-Élysées, the champagne-fuelled nights at the hotel, at least someone appreciated the gesture.
Still, Snow’s silence is baffling. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. The flowers should have softened her. The dinner invitation should have shown her I’m willing to make an effort. Paris should have swept her off her feet. That’s how it always works. Grand gestures. A little romance. Women always fold.
Except Snow isn’t folding.
But tonight will be different. Snow has to come — she’s on the committee, and she doesn’t like to let people down. That’sher weakness. Her need to be responsible, reliable, perfect. She’ll be here.
And when she sees me, sees us together in front of everyone who matters, she’ll remember what we are. What we’re supposed to be. Then I can get her alone, explain everything. Yes, the divorce papers cite adultery and that post-nup draft, but those are misunderstandings. I can make her see that. The post-nup was just something Beaumont pushed on me. Peer pressure, really. I never intended to actually use it. And the affairs? She’s being dramatic. Every man in our circle has certain… arrangements. It’s just how things are done at this level. She’s the one I actually love. Once I explain it, she’ll understand.
“Preston!” Charles Handers claps me on the back, his breath already heavy with whiskey. “Heard some ridiculous rumors about you and Snow. Don’t tell me you’re letting that beautiful wife of yours get away.”
I force my most confident smile. “Just a minor misunderstanding, Charles. You know how emotional women can get. We’ll have it sorted out soon enough.”
“Good man. Snow’s a treasure. Way out of your league, if you ask me.” He laughs at his own joke and moves on, leaving me with a slight sting of irritation.
Out of my league? Please. I’m the one who transformed her from a naive hippie’s daughter into Manhattan society material. I taught her which fork to use, which designers to wear, how to navigate conversations with real power players. She should be grateful.
Then I see her.
My breath actually catches in my throat. Snow is standing near the silent auction tables, and she is… luminous. She’s wearing a midnight blue gown that hugs her curves perfectly — not the modest, safe styles I usually prefer her in, but something bold, sophisticated. Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon,showcasing the diamond earrings I bought her for our third anniversary. She looks like a queen.
More importantly, she looks like mine.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear someone mutter behind me. “Who is that?”
I turn to see two of Charles’s business partners staring at my wife with undisguised appreciation.
“That’s Snow Darlington,” the other one says. “Preston’s wife. Lucky bastard.”
“She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. What’s she doing alone?”
My jaw clenches. Whatisshe doing alone? She should be standing beside me, where she belongs. I stride across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of donors and board members, my focus locked on reclaiming what’s mine.
