Willow POV
My brain stalled for a full second before the message arrived in my limbs. A cramp seized my stomach, and my legs felt as though they had been filled with lead.
I followed the direction of my coworker's pointing finger.
Sitting in a secluded, dimly lit booth across the restaurant was my husband.
And sitting across from him was a woman.
Even from a distance, I recognized the luxurious drape of her cashmere coat and the effortless, glamorous posture.
It was Scarlett.
A hot pressure built in my chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath.
I needed to leave before they saw me.
I pushed my chair back and stood up quickly, keeping my head lowered.
"I'm going to the restroom," I murmured to my colleagues.
I quickened my pace, trying to slip past their section unnoticed.
"Hey, Willow!" my loud colleague called out across the dining room, destroying my attempt at cover.
"Is that the socialite Scarlett with him?"
At the sound of my name, my husband's gaze snapped up and found mine across the expanse of the room.
Zane locked eyes with me instantly, his expression a blank wall.
"Stop right there," he commanded.
His voice was not loud, but it carried an absolute authority that paralyzed my legs.
I stiffly turned around to face them.
Scarlett stood up from the booth.
She wore a perfectly practiced, condescending smile as her eyes raked over me.
Zane remained completely silent, his jaw tightening slightly as he observed the interaction.
He made no attempt to introduce me, nor to acknowledge in any way that I was his wife.
He had erased my existence in a single act of omission.
Scarlett laughed—a light, musical sound that grated against my ears.
"Well, if it isn't Willow," she said, tilting her head.
"I would recognize that silent, invisible girl hiding in the corners anywhere."
She looked me up and down with fake approval.
"You look quite presentable now."
A cold numbness spread through my veins.
I forced a hollow smile onto my face.
"Excuse me, I need to return to my colleagues," I said.
I walked away before either of them could speak another word.
When I got back to my table, my coworkers bombarded me with questions.
"How do you know them?" one asked eagerly.
"Are they having a forbidden underground affair?" another whispered.
I let out a bitter, quiet laugh.
"We are not close," I murmured, staring down at my empty water glass.
I mocked my own pathetic existence in the safety of my mind, and endured the remainder of the meal in a state of rigid quiet.
When dinner finally ended, the maître d' approached our table with a polite bow.
"The gentleman in the corner booth has already covered your bill," he announced.
My colleagues swooned over the terrifying lawyer's generosity.
But I felt sick to my stomach.
Needing a distraction, I stepped out into the cool night air and pulled out my phone.
A new notification from the syndicate chat flashed on my screen.
Scarlett had just posted a picture of two wine glasses on a candlelit table.
Her caption read: "Some deals are best sealed over a drink." I stared at the image until my vision blurred, wondering which deal exactly my husband was sealing—and why it felt like my heart was the collateral.
