Chapter 5 - The Dress Rehearsal
Saturday evening arrived with a storm rolling in off the Atlantic, lightning flashing across the Boston skyline. It was a fitting backdrop for the destruction that was about to unfold.
Grant and Vanessa were in the master suite getting ready. I could hear Vanessa complaining about the caterers, her shrill voice echoing down the hallway.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom. For five years, I had worn the muted, conservative colors Grant demanded. I had worn my hair up, worn minimal makeup, and shrunk myself to make him feel bigger.
Not tonight.
I slipped into a floor-length, blood-red silk gown that clung to every curve. I let my dark hair fall in cascading waves down my back. I applied a bold, unapologetic red lipstick. And finally, I fastened my mother's emerald pendant around my neck. It rested against my collarbone, heavy with history and vengeance.
I looked at the woman in the mirror. I didn't see Claire Whitmore, the pathetic, sickly wife. I saw Claire Rowan. And I was magnificent.
I walked downstairs just as Grant and Vanessa emerged from the master suite. Vanessa was wearing a silver sequined dress that looked entirely too desperate for a black-tie charity event. Grant was adjusting his cufflinks.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they froze.
Grant's jaw literally dropped. He stared at me, his eyes raking over the red silk, the makeup, and the absolute radiating confidence I projected. For a second, I saw raw, unfiltered desire in his eyes—followed immediately by confusion and anger.
"What are you wearing?" Grant snapped, recovering his composure. "I told you to stay home."
"I changed my mind," I said smoothly, grabbing my clutch. "As your wife, it is my duty to stand by your side on such an important night. After all, you're announcing your promotion, aren't you?"
Vanessa crossed her arms, glaring at me with pure venom. "You can't go. You're not on the guest list for the VIP tables. And quite frankly, Claire, you look ridiculous. This is a classy event."
I turned slowly to Vanessa. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't have to.
"Vanessa," I said, my voice dripping with ice. "You are an employee sleeping with her boss in my guest bedroom. Do not ever presume to lecture me about class. Now, get in the car."
Vanessa gasped, looking at Grant for defense. But Grant was too thrown off balance. The weak, dying woman he had left at the hospital was gone. He scowled, grabbing Vanessa's arm.
"Fine. You want to come, Claire? Come. But stay out of my way."
The ride to the Millennium Hotel ballroom was silent. The air in the limousine was thick with tension. Grant kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, unsettled by the fact that I wasn't cowering.
When we arrived, the ballroom was a spectacle of wealth and privilege. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over Boston's elite. Waiters carried trays of champagne. Richard Whitmore, Grant's father, was holding court in the center of the room, looking like a king.
Grant immediately abandoned me to parade Vanessa around the room. I let them go. I didn't need him tonight.
I walked over to the bar, ordered a glass of champagne, and turned to survey the room.
Across the ballroom, standing near the massive double doors, was Dr. Owen Mercer. He was wearing a sharp black tuxedo, looking incredibly handsome. He caught my eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
The trap was set. The doors were secured.
May you like
It was time for the main event.
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