The laughter hit her first.
Not the words. Not even the tone. Just that bright, careless burst of female laughter from the far side of the ballroom, the kind people only use when they feel safe being cruel.
Maya Brown stood beside a ten-foot arrangement of white orchids in the Grand Astor Hotel, one hand wrapped around the stem of a champagne flute she had not touched in twenty minutes, and watched three women in jeweled gowns pretend not to stare at her. The room glowed with money—crystal chandeliers, mirrored walls, silver trays drifting through the crowd under the hands of silent waiters. Outside, Manhattan was cold and black and wet from an early spring rain. Inside, everyone was polished enough to reflect light.
She had known this would happen the moment Taylor told her she had to attend.
It’s important for the company, he had said that afternoon, standing in the doorway of the suite he’d given her in his penthouse, already in his tuxedo shirt, cuff links catching the low light. People expect to see my wife.
Wife.
Even now, three months into the arrangement, the word still had edges.
Maya had looked up from the paperback she wasn’t really reading and said, “Then maybe you should have married someone they’d find easier to photograph.”
