Astoria stared at the glossy cover—the foundation's logo, the date, the wordsCelebrating Community Excellence—and the room tilted sideways.
That was six months ago, the night everything ended.
The ballroom had shimmered with champagne and crystal, five hundred of Phoenix Ridge's wealthiest packed into the Cascadia Grand Hotel for the city's most prestigious charity event. Astoria had worn a charcoal sheath dress, understated among the sequins and jewel tones, but Valerie had made up for it with her emerald silk that caught the light with every movement, drawing eyes the way she always did.
They’d arrived together, the picture of a power couple. Valerie's hand rested on Astoria's arm, her smile bright and public-facing as photographers captured their entrance. Toanyone watching, they were exactly what the society pages had always called them: Phoenix Ridge's most elegant pair.
Astoria remembered when that image had felt like something to protect. In the early years, Valerie's social grace had seemed like a gift. She'd smoothed Astoria's rough edges, taught her which forks to use at which courses and how to small-talk with donors who had more money than sense. Valerie could make anyone feel like the most important person in the room. For a while, she'd made Astoria feel that way too.
That was a long time ago.
By the time they reached the cocktail hour, Valerie was on her second glass of champagne, maybe her third. Not drunk—Valerie was too controlled for that—but loosened. The edge beneath her charm had started to show.
Astoria worked the room the way she always did at these events: brief conversations, strategic networking, the choreographed dance of philanthropy and business that kept Shepry Global's reputation sterling. She spoke with Jade Thornton about sustainable development grants and congratulated Sofia Marconi on her foundation's recent expansion. She smiled until her face ached and counted the hours until she could leave.
Valerie orbited nearby, charming donors and laughing at the right moments, playing her part.
It happened during a conversation with the Hartfords, old money from the timber industry, polite and curious about Shepry Global's latest eco-infrastructure project. Ellen Hartford had asked something innocuous about work-life balance—how did Astoria manage such a demanding company and still make time for her marriage?
Before Astoria could answer, Valerie appeared at her elbow. “Oh, she doesn’t.” Valerie laughed, the sound light and musical.“I’ve learned to accept that I married the company as much as the woman. Shepry Global will always be her first love.”
The Hartfords chuckled politely, and Astoria kept her smile fixed in place.
“But you make it work,” Ellen said, clearly trying to smooth the moment.
“We manage.” Valerie's hand found Astoria's arm, squeezing gently. “Though between us, I've sometimes wondered if she'd even notice if I disappeared for a week. As long as the quarterly reports looked good.”
More polite laughter followed, and Astoria felt something icy settle in her chest.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” James Hartford offered.
“You’d be surprised.” Valerie’s smile didn’t waver. “My wife isn’t exactly the warm, fuzzy type. ‘Frigid’ might be the more accurate term, though I say that with love, of course.”
The word was suspended in the air, like the sting after a slap.
The Hartfords’ laughter died into uncomfortable silence. James cleared his throat, and Ellen suddenly became very interested in her champagne flute. Astoria stood frozen, her face blank while something cracked behind her ribs.
Valerie squeezed her arm again, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m teasing, darling. You know I adore you.”
Astoria managed a smile. She didn't remember what she said—something appropriate that ended the conversation without making a scene—and the Hartfords drifted away with visible relief, then Valerie melted back into the crowd as if nothing had happened.
Astoria excused herself and walked toward the restrooms. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step precise and measured. She nodded at an acquaintance and smiled at a waiter, and above all, she did not run.
The bathroom was mercifully empty, and Astoria locked herself in the far stall, pressing her back against the wall. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest had gone tight, her lungs refusing to expand properly, and the room felt too small as the walls pressed in. She gripped the edge of the stall door and forced herself to count. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four.
Frigid.
In front of the Hartfords and anyone else who might have been listening and said with a smile, wrapped in laughter, so that Astoria couldn’t even object without seeming oversensitive.
The panic crested and slowly, slowly receded. Astoria stood in the stall until her hands stopped trembling, she could breathe without effort, and the mask was in place. Then she checked her reflection in the mirror—perfectly composed, not a hair out of place—and returned to the gala.
She got through the rest of the evening on autopilot. She smiled at all the right people, made her donation, and posed for one more photograph with Valerie, their shoulders touching, the image of a happy couple.
In the car afterward, the silence stretched taut between them.
“You’re upset,” Valerie observed. She was checking her phone, scrolling at something, not even looking at Astoria.
“You called me frigid in front of the Hartfords.”
