The backstage dressing room felt like a tomb—all harsh fluorescent lights and mirrors that showed too much truth. I stood in the center of the small space, wine still dripping from the emerald silk that had made me feel beautiful just an hour ago. The stain spread across my chest like a wound, dark and accusatory.
Adrian paced behind me, his reflection multiplying in the mirrors that lined the walls. Each step was sharp, deliberate, the sound of his Italian leather shoes against the linoleum floor like gunshots in the silence.
"Jesus Christ, Lia," he hissed, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I turned to face him, my voice barely above a whisper. "What I've done?"
"Don't play innocent." His eyes blazed with a fury I'd rarely seen directed at me so openly. "You saw Ivy walking toward that waiter. You could have warned her, moved out of the way, something. Instead, you just stood there like a deer in headlights."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. "Adrian, she—"
"She what? Tripped? Had an accident?" He stopped pacing and whirled to face me fully. "My sister is lying on a couch right now, shaking like a leaf because she's mortified about what happened. And you're worried about a dress?"
I looked down at the ruined gown, Julian's gift now destroyed beyond repair. The wine had soaked through to my skin, cold and sticky. "I'm not worried about the dress."
"Then what? The photos? The gossip?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You think this is about you being embarrassed? Lia, there were three hundred people in that room. Donors. Board members. People whose opinions matter for this family's reputation."
This family's reputation. Not our reputation. Not my reputation. His family's.
"I know," I said quietly.
"Do you?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he used when he was truly angry. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were so busy playing the martyr up there on stage that you couldn't be bothered to pay attention to your surroundings."
I stared at him, this man I'd loved for ten years, and felt something crack inside my chest. "I was giving a speech. About helping abused women. I thought that was the point of tonight."
"The point of tonight was raising money and maintaining our family's standing in this community. Everything else is just window dressing." He adjusted his cufflinks with sharp, angry movements. "And now, thanks to your carelessness, every gossip blog in the city is going to be running photos of my wife looking like she got into a bar fight."
His wife. Not me, Lia. His wife, the accessory that had malfunctioned.
"Where is Ivy now?" I asked, though I wasn't sure why.
"Safe. Resting. Like she should be after what she's been through." His tone softened when he spoke about her, the way it used to soften when he spoke about me. "Dr. Morrison is checking her over, making sure she didn't hurt anything when she fell."
Of course. Dr. Morrison, the family physician who made house calls and asked no questions. The same doctor who'd never once been called when I'd suffered my 'accidents' over the years.
"I should go home," I said, suddenly exhausted. "Change clothes."
"No." The word was sharp, final. "You're going back out there. You're going to smile, shake hands, and act like nothing happened. The evening isn't over just because you had a wardrobe malfunction."
I looked at myself in the mirror—hair disheveled, makeup smeared, wine staining the front of my dress like blood. "Adrian, I can't go back out there like this."
"You can and you will. There's a bathroom down the hall. Clean yourself up, fix your makeup, and get back to work." He checked his watch, a platinum Patek Philippe that cost more than most people's cars. "The auction starts in twenty minutes. I need you presentable."
Presentable. Like a show dog that had rolled in mud.
I nodded because arguing would only make things worse. I'd learned that lesson years ago. "Okay."
"And Lia?" He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "Next time, try to remember that this isn't about you. It's about something bigger than your feelings or your pride. Don't let your selfishness ruin another family event."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my reflection and the sound of my own ragged breathing. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the woman in the mirror—this stranger wearing my face, my ruined dress, my broken life.
My selfishness. My carelessness. My fault.
Always my fault.
I made it through the rest of the evening on autopilot. Smiled when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, applauded during the auction. The wine stain on my dress had dried to a dark, rusty color, and I'd managed to clean most of the residue from my hair and face. I looked like a woman who'd had a minor accident, not someone whose world was quietly imploding.
By the time we returned to the penthouse, it was nearly midnight. Adrian disappeared into his study without a word, probably to make calls about damage control. I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my feet aching in the designer heels I'd worn for twelve hours.
I was halfway through removing my jewelry when my phone buzzed. A notification from one of the gossip apps I'd foolishly downloaded months ago, thinking it might help me stay informed about the social circles we moved in.
The headline made my blood turn to ice: "St. James Scandal: Billionaire's Wife's Private Photos Leaked."
With trembling fingers, I clicked on the article. The photos were there—intimate shots I'd taken years ago in our bedroom, wearing silk pajamas Adrian had bought me for Christmas. They were pictures I'd sent to him during one of his long business trips to London, when we were still pretending our marriage had passion.
Now they were plastered across the internet with captions suggesting I was having an affair, that I was unstable, that I was everything wrong with the privileged elite.
My iCloud account. Someone had hacked my iCloud account.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the phone shaking in my hands as I scrolled through comment after vicious comment. The photos were everywhere—on blogs, social media, gossip sites. My most private moments, shared in love and trust, now fodder for strangers to judge and mock.
The bedroom door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall. Adrian stood in the doorway, his tablet clutched in his white-knuckled grip, his face a mask of pure rage.
"What the hell is this?" he roared.
