He nods, and I make my way down to the floor to deal with my… what exactly is Ezara? Brother-in-law? Former brother-in-law? Former almost-brother-in-law?
Doesn't matter. He's about worn out all the goodwill I ever held for him.
A few days later…
Mom assured me once again that she was feeling much better and that Maggie would stay with her. Pete's sister, Maggie, is our one saving grace. Mom likes her, trusts her. Not as much as she trusts me, of course—no one earns that level of scrutiny—but Maggie has a way of handling Mom's anxiety without feeding it. We try not to ask too often. Lifelines shouldn't be overused. But tonight Maggie is here, standing behind me in the bathroom with a curling iron, twisting sections of my hair while humming quietly.
"You're going to look incredible," she hums.
"I feel ridiculous," I laugh.
I'm sitting in a robe while my dress hangs from the bathroom door behind us. The dress!
Just thinking about it still feels unreal. The ballgown arrived carefully packaged like something meant for royalty, and it's still perfectly preserved beneath the clear protective cover. Midnight-blue silk that looks almost liquid when the light touches it.
The car came back from the shop running better than ever. And Pete got his promotion. Senior analyst. He was so happy and a little tipsy when he came home that night.
And I can't forget the purse. The ridiculous, beautiful purse. The one that started this whole strange streak of luck.
"Seriously." Maggie studies my reflection while adjusting a curl. "You're glowing."
"I'm jittery," I admit.
"Good jittery or panic jittery?"
"Good."
I've never worn a ballgown before. Never been invited to anything like this. My high school prom was the highlight of my social life. I've never stepped into a world where people host masked balls and send invitations on thick black paper with gold lettering. It feels like stepping into a movie.
Most of all, though, I hope this ball will be a chance for Pete and me to reconnect, to rekindle our marriage. There has to be more to life than mortgage payments, the five o'clock news, and Netflix. It doesn't have to be the danger or thrill I craved at fifteen. Just a night out. A little spice in our sex life.
When he came home tipsy from celebrating his promotion, I really tried. I showered, shaved everything smooth, slipped into the black lace teddy I'd bought two months ago and never worn. I left my hair loose, put on just enough makeup to look like the woman he married, not some stranger. I even turned on a porn clip on my phone—soft lighting, slow and sensual—so I'd be ready, wet and aching for him.
I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face when he stepped into the bedroom.
"Au-Audra?" His voice cracked like I was some alien wearing his wife's skin.
"Pete," I purred, trying to sound sultry instead of desperate. I crawled up the bed on my knees and hooked a finger into his slightly crooked tie, pulling him closer. "I've been waiting for you."
I kissed him. He kissed me back, tentative at first, then with that familiar warmth. But when my hand slid down to the front of his slacks, I felt him… soft. Completely limp.
"Audra, I'm sorry." His cheeks flushed deep red. He gently caught my wrist, stopping me. "You know I can't… not like this."
His eyes darted to the phone still playing soft moans on the nightstand, then back to the lace barely covering my breasts, the way I was kneeling there like I was offering myself up for sale. I saw it hit him, the same way it always does when I try to push us past the neat, orderly missionary sex we've had for six years. He likes making love to me. He does. But anything that looks or feels like a hooker—lingerie, dirty talk, porn, me taking the lead—turns his stomach. It's not me he's rejecting; it's the version of me that suddenly reminds him of the women he's always been quietly disgusted by. The ones who do thingslike that. I knew that. I know that. Still, that night I had hoped…
He took a shaky breath, trying to find the right words, and failed hard. "It's too much. You look… I don't know. It feels wrong. Cheap. I just… I wantus, the way we've always been. Can we just… turn that off?"
The sting of that moment still blooms hot behind my eyes. I'd forced a smile, reaching for my phone while my chest tightened. I reminded myself he still wanted me. He still loved me. He just didn't wantthatversion of me. I hope against hope that maybe tonight will be different. Maybe if we slip on clothes wedon't ever wear, put on masks, Pete will lighten up a bit. Maggie lowers the curling iron and grins at me through the mirror. "Wait until Pete sees you." She frowns when she remembers that we still haven't heard him come home. "Speaking of the devil, whereishe?"
I look at my phone to see the time. He's cutting it close. He called earlier to say that he was going to be late, again. But it's only thirty more minutes before the ball, and he still has to shower and change.
I pick up the phone and call him.
"Babe, I'm so sorry," he says in greeting.
My stomach drops. "You can't make it."
"I'm sorry. No, I can't. The big boss came in and wants to go over some numbers for a real estate deal."
