The stylists chorused their praise, yet that flawless Mrs. Morozov in the mirror felt like a complete stranger.
When our convoy arrived at the arts center, media and guests had already assembled. Kholod emerged first, his black tuxedo lending his features a stern cast. He turned and extended his hand. I drew a steadying breath and placed mine in his palm.
His hand was warm, gripping mine with measured pressure as he assisted me from the vehicle. Camera flashes erupted like a tempest, shutters clicking incessantly.
"Mrs. Morozov! Over here!"
"What are your thoughts on tonight's charitable focus?"
Kholod's arm encircled my waist, creating a barrier against the eager press. I maintained a gracious smile, acknowledging them with subtle nods while remaining silent. Under countless scrutinizing gazes, we entered the opulent ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers cascaded light, champagne fountains sparkled, strings wafted through the air. Every guest wore formal attire and practiced smiles.
"Kholod!" A middle-aged man in navy approached us. "You made it!"
"Mayor Williams," Kholod acknowledged with a nod.
"This must be your lovely wife?" The mayor's attention shifted to me. "I've heard wonderful things. Mrs. Morozov, you look absolutely luminous tonight."
"You're very kind," I replied with a smile.
For the following half hour, I circulated on Kholod's arm among Philadelphia's elite—mayors, congressmen, entrepreneurs, socialites—exchanging the same tedious pleasantries. I functioned as an elegantaccessory adorning his arm, smiling and responding at precisely the right moments.
"Noelle!"
A familiar voice rang out.
I turned to see Isabella approaching in a rose-colored gown, her face radiant with joy.
"You look absolutely stunning! Magnificent tonight!" She clasped my hands. "That dress is perfection on you!"
"Thank you," I replied courteously. "You look lovely as well."
"Kholod," she addressed him, eyes bright with anticipation, "thank you for the invitation. I'm truly honored."
Kholod merely offered a cool nod. "Sure."
Watching them, bitterness rose in my throat once more. So he had invited her. Of course. She was organizing a charity auction—this gala would provide excellent research material. How considerate of him.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. The ambient lighting dimmed, leaving only the spotlight illuminating the dance floor. Guests instinctively withdrew, every eye focused on the center.
Tradition dictated that the evening's first dance belonged to the host and hostess. I gathered my skirts, preparing to step forward. Kholod released my hand and strode toward the dance floor.
His steps never faltered. He walked past me entirely.
Kholod approached Isabella and, before the assembled crowd, extended his hand with practiced elegance.
"May I have this dance?"
His voice carried distinctly through the hushed ballroom. Isabella colored prettily, casting an uncertain glance my way before placing her hand in his. "The honor would be mine."
Kholod guided her to the spotlight's center. There, they began to dance. I remained frozen in place, sensation draining from my limbs. Every gaze in the room shifted from the dancing pair to me—probing, pitying, savoring the spectacle.
"Mrs. Morozov appears rather displeased."
"What's this about? Barely six months married?"
"I heard Miss Vance is actually the one who..."
