The Plaza glittered like a jewel box tonight, all crystal chandeliers and champagne bubbles catching the light. I smoothed down my emerald gown—the one Clayton had said brought out my eyes—and stepped into the ballroom where Manhattan's elite circulated in their usual dance of power and pretense.
Seven years. Seven years of these galas, of standing beside Clayton as he worked the room, of being the perfect Mrs. Montgomery. Tonight should have been no different.
But Clayton wasn't beside me.
I accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and smiled at Margaret Ashford, who air-kissed both my cheeks while complimenting my gown. The words felt hollow in my ears because my attention was elsewhere, tracking the dark head of my husband as he moved through the crowd like a man being pulled by invisible strings.
His phone. He kept checking his phone.
"Darling, you look radiant," someone said. I turned my practiced smile toward them, responded with something gracious and forgettable, all while watching Clayton disappear toward the terrace alcoves.
The knot in my stomach tightened.
I excused myself and followed, my heels clicking against marble as the sounds of the gala faded behind me. The champagne flute felt cold in my hand. When I reached the alcove entrance, I heard Clayton's voice—soft, tender in a way he hadn't spoken to me in months.
Maybe years.
I stepped around the corner and the world tilted.
Clayton stood with his hand curved protectively over a small swell of belly. The woman wearing that belly was young, doe-eyed, draped in soft pink that screamed innocence. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she gazed up at my husband with the kind of adoration I used to see in my own mirror.
The tender way he touched her. The way his entire body curved toward hers, sheltering, protecting.
She saw me first. Her eyes widened and she let out a small gasp, stepping back like a startled deer. "Clayton—"
He turned, and for one moment—one crystalline, devastating moment—I saw guilt flash across his face. Then it hardened into something worse. Defensiveness. Protectiveness. But not for me.
He stepped in front of her.
In front of his mistress. Blocking her from me like I was the threat. Like I was the villain in whatever twisted story he'd convinced himself he was living.
"Wynter." My name came out flat, almost annoyed. "This isn't—"
"Isn't what?" My voice surprised me with its steadiness. "Isn't what it looks like? Isn't the father of her child? Isn't my husband's hand on another woman's pregnant belly?"
The girl—because that's what she was, practically a girl—made a small sound behind him. A whimper. Playing the victim already.
Something inside me snapped.
Seven years of perfection. Seven years of supporting his career, his ambitions, his family. Seven years of being everything a Montgomery wife should be. And this was how it ended—with him protecting her from me.
I didn't remember reaching for the champagne bottle on the nearby table. Didn't remember my feet carrying me forward. I just remember the way rage felt—hot and bright and finally, finally honest.
Clayton caught my wrist before I reached her. The bottle slipped from my fingers and exploded against the marble floor, sending champagne and glass spraying across expensive shoes. The crash echoed through suddenly silent air.
The entire ballroom had gone quiet.
I looked up to find hundreds of eyes on us. Manhattan's elite, frozen in their social dance, staring at the spectacle of Wynter Montgomery losing her composure. Phones appeared. Camera flashes started popping like tiny explosions.
And then Clayton did something I would never forgive.
He dropped to his knees.
But not to me. Not to his wife of seven years. He sank down in front of his pregnant mistress and took her trembling hand, his voice carrying across the silent ballroom like a proclamation.
"I'll divorce her, Saige. Immediately. You and our child deserve to have my name. You deserve everything."
The words hit like physical blows. Each one landed with precision, cutting deeper than any knife. He said her name—Saige—with more tenderness than he'd shown me in years. He promised her my position, my life, my name.
In front of everyone.
The flashes intensified. Whispers rippled through the crowd like poison. I felt every eye on me, measuring my humiliation, calculating how fast they could spread this story through their social circles.
But I was still a Russell. Still had my mother's steel in my spine.
I straightened slowly, letting the broken glass crunch under my heels. Met Clayton's eyes with a gaze so cold I watched him flinch. Then I looked at Saige, taking in her calculated tears, her protective hand over her belly, her pink dress chosen to emphasize her youth and supposed innocence.
"Enjoy the champagne," I said, my voice carrying across the silent room with perfect, devastating clarity. "I hope you choke on it."
I turned and walked toward the exit, my head high, my steps measured and graceful despite the shattered glass, shattered marriage, shattered life I left behind. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and I felt their eyes like brands against my back.
Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them capture every moment.
I would make sure Clayton Montgomery regretted every second of this night.
Every. Single. Second.
