My husband bu:rned my only decent dress so I couldn’t attend his promotion party.
Not torn. Not hidden.
Burned.
The fabric curled into itself, blackened at the edges, reduced to something unrecognizable. And Adrian had stood there, watching me take it in, like he was teaching me a lesson I should have learned long ago.
“You’d embarrass me anyway,” he had said, almost casually. “It’s better this way.”
There are moments when something inside you doesn’t shatter—it settles.
Quietly.
Permanently.
That was one of them.
Back in the ballroom, he laughed easily, his arm wrapped around another woman like the space beside him had always belonged to someone else.
He didn’t glance toward the door.
He didn’t wonder where I was.
Why would he?
As far as he was concerned, I wasn’t coming.
Then the music stopped.
Not gradually—completely.
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