I saw the fireworks on my phone.
I was sitting in the dark in our penthouse. Gideon was out. Again. The living room stretched around me like a museum after hours. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Furniture that cost more than most people's cars. Everything perfect. Everything cold.
My phone lit up with a notification. Then another. Then six more in a row.
I opened Instagram.
The first photo showed the Brooklyn Bridge lit up in gold and silver. Fireworks exploding over the East River in patterns that spelled out S and D. Selah's initials. The caption read: "Hoffman's Spectacular Tribute to His First Love." Three million likes in twenty minutes.
I scrolled. More photos. Gideon in a black suit on a private yacht. Selah in a red dress that probably cost what I used to make in a year when I was acting. Her head thrown back, laughing. His hand on the small of her back.
I sat very still.
Seven years. I'd been his wife for seven years. He'd never chartered fireworks for me. He'd never spelled my name in lights over the river. He'd never looked at me the way he looked at her in these photos.
The screen's cold light washed over my face. I could see my reflection in the dark window. A woman alone in a penthouse that cost eight million dollars. Wearing pajamas. Holding a phone.
I set the phone down on the coffee table. Face up. The photos kept cycling. Gideon and Selah. Selah and Gideon. A million-dollar public declaration of devotion to another woman, made while his wife sat in his home.
I didn't cry.
I was done crying.
I picked up my phone again and opened my contacts. I scrolled to a name I'd been staring at for three days. Noah Castillo. We'd met at a gallery opening last month. He was a model. Tall, easy smile, the kind of face that sold watches and cologne. He'd given me his number and said, "If you ever want to grab coffee."
I texted him: *Are you free tomorrow night? There's a charity gala. I need a date.*
He replied in thirty seconds: *I'd be honored.*
I stood up. My ankle twinged. I'd twisted it last week on the stairs and Gideon hadn't noticed. I walked to the bedroom and opened my closet. I pulled out a black dress. Valentino. Vintage. The same dress I'd worn to my first premiere seven years ago. Before I gave it all up for him.
I held it up to the light.
It still fit.
***
The gala was at The Plaza. Photographers lined the red carpet like a firing squad. I stepped out of the car and Noah offered me his arm. He was wearing a navy suit. His smile was warm and uncomplicated.
"You look incredible," he said.
I believed him because he said it like he meant it. Not like a performance. Not like an obligation.
The cameras went insane.
I smiled. I posed. I let Noah's hand rest lightly on my waist. I answered questions about the charity. I didn't mention Gideon once.
Inside, Noah pulled out my chair. He asked me about the art on the walls. He listened when I answered. He laughed at my joke about the centerpiece looking like it was trying too hard. He didn't check his phone once.
It was the easiest three hours I'd had in years.
When we left, the photos were already everywhere. My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn't look at it. I knew what it would say.
***
I got home a little after midnight.
The penthouse was dark except for one lamp in the living room. Gideon was sitting in the leather chair by the window. A glass of whiskey on the table beside him. Untouched.
He didn't stand when I walked in.
"You embarrassed me," he said. His voice was ice.
I set my clutch on the console table. "I embarrassed you?"
"The Hoffman name means something. You made it look cheap."
I turned to face him. "You chartered fireworks for another woman. You spelled her initials over the East River. Every outlet in the city called her your first love. But I embarrassed you?"
"Selah is different."
"Selah is your wife?"
He stood. "Don't do this."
"Don't do what? Exist? Have feelings? Want my husband to look at me the way he looks at her?"
"You're being dramatic."
I laughed. It came out sharp and ugly. I stepped toward him and my heel caught on the edge of the rug. I went down hard. My ankle twisted under me. Pain shot up my leg like a live wire.
I gasped.
Gideon glanced at me. His phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up. His face changed.
"I have to go," he said.
I stared at him from the floor. "What?"
"Selah's upset. The tabloids are bothering her."
He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.
"Gideon. I'm hurt."
He looked at me. Really looked at me. For maybe three seconds.
"You'll be fine," he said.
Then he left.
I sat on the cold marble floor. My ankle was swelling. My dress was bunched around my thighs. Mascara was running down my face. I could see myself in the dark window again. A woman alone.
I didn't cry.
My eyes were completely dry.
I pulled out my phone. The fireworks photos were still cycling on every screen. Gideon and Selah. Selah and Gideon.
I turned off my phone.
I sat there in the dark for a long time.
Something inside me had finally gone quiet.
