Chapter 4 - The Gala Invitation
Four days after the accident, the annual St. Jude Charity Gala—the very same event where the chandelier had nearly ended Haley’s life—was still the talk of the city’s high-society tabloids. Photographs of Dylan holding Ryan outside the hospital had plastered the morning papers, alongside glowing editorial pieces praising his “boundless paternal heroism.”
That afternoon, Dylan finally returned home.
I was sitting in the library of my father’s estate when my phone rang. Caller ID: Dylan.
I let it ring three times before swiping to answer.
“Elena? Where the hell are you?” Dylan’s voice barked through the speaker, laced with annoyance and exhausted arrogance. “I came home an hour ago, and the master closet is half-empty. Marcus said you packed up and left. Are you throwing a tantrum because I stayed at the hospital with Ryan?”
I could hear the absolute lack of self-awareness in his tone. To him, my absence wasn't a breaking of the marriage vows; it was an inconvenient, childish outburst from a woman jealous of a sick child.
“I’m not throwing a tantrum, Dylan,” I replied smoothly, my voice devoid of emotion. “I’m saving myself the trouble of living under the same roof as a stranger.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he sighed heavily, the sound of rustling papers coming through the line as if he were already sitting at his corporate desk, juggling investments. “Sierra and Ryan are going through a difficult time. Ryan has severe trauma from the chandelier collapse. As a man of integrity, I couldn’t just walk away. You’re an adult, Elena. You can handle a little moving around. Now, pack your things and come back before the staff starts gossiping. We have the annual charity board dinner this Friday, and you need to be on my arm to maintain appearances.”
I stared out the window, watching a pair of sparrows dart across the lawn. Maintenance of appearances. That was all our marriage had ever been to him—a polished veneer to cement his social standing in a world he had clawed his way into.
“I won’t be at the gala, Dylan,” I said softly.
“Don’t be absurd, Elena. It’s mandatory for the executive board,” he snapped, his patience finally snapping. “If you aren't dressed and standing in the foyer by seven o'clock on Friday night, don't expect me to cover for your absence when the press starts asking questions about our marriage.”
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“Oh, don't worry about the press, Dylan,” I replied, a chilling smile touching my lips. “I promise you, by Friday night, everyone in this city will be talking about you. They just won't be calling you a hero.”
Before he could demand an explanation, I hung up the phone and blocked his number.
