On the night we attended Richard’s extravagant birthday celebration, I thought I understood exactly what kind of evening we were stepping into—awkward networking, polished smiles, and the quiet pressure of making my husband look successful in front of the man who signed his paycheck. Daniel had been tense for days leading up to it, rehearsing how I should behave, reminding me to keep May close, and repeating that Richard needed to see him as “loyal.” I had learned over the years how to read that tone in his voice—the one that meant I wasn’t just his wife that evening, but part of a performance.

Still, I told myself it was harmless. Work stress. Career pressure. Things that would pass. I had no reason yet to suspect that the life I thought we were living was already split in two behind my back. The estate itself felt like a different world. White columns, sweeping gardens, chandeliers glowing over guests who looked as if they had been assembled from another social class entirely. I remember feeling smaller with every step I took inside, acutely aware of my simple navy dress and the way people’s eyes moved over me like I was temporary.