James reached into his jacket and pulled out his credit card.

“Spend whatever you want while you’re settling back in,” he said. “You need to feel at home again.”

A silence moved through me.

Not the room.

Me.

Something internal stopped breathing.

That was the moment I understood that James did not merely enjoy Ashley’s attention. He felt responsible for her. Protective. Possessive in a way he had not felt toward me in years. He gave her the softness I had begged for in marital arguments and received as irritation.

Then Ashley stood too quickly.

Her hand caught the stem of her wineglass.

Red wine tipped.

Spilled.

Spread across my white dress like fresh blood.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. “Laura, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

I looked down at the stain.

The wine seeped cold through the fabric, spreading across my lap, my stomach, my dignity.

Then I looked at Ashley.

For half a second, the mask slipped.

There it was.

A flash of triumph.

Small. Bright. Ugly.

James sighed, not at her cruelty, not at my ruined dress, but in the gentle way one corrects a naughty child.

“Be more careful next time.”

He picked up a napkin.

And handed it to Ashley first.

He wiped the wine from her fingers while my dress bled red.

Only after her hand was clean did he turn to me.

“Honey,” he said, voice low, embarrassed by me somehow, “do you want to go to the restroom and clean up?”

Something inside me snapped so quietly no one heard it.

I looked at his hand still wrapped around Ashley’s. I looked at the way his thumb brushed her knuckles before he let go. I looked at the woman smirking behind fake horror. I looked at the man I had loved since I was twenty-three, the man I had carried financially, emotionally, professionally, the man whose company existed because I believed in him before the market did.

He reached toward Ashley’s hair then, as if unconsciously, catching one loose curl between his fingers and twirling it with delicate affection.

A gesture so intimate it stole the last of my restraint.

I picked up my wineglass.

Stood.

And threw the remaining red wine directly into James Carter’s face.

The sound was sharp.

A wet smack.

Wine exploded across his cheek, his jaw, his crisp white collar, the gray suit I had chosen for him that morning. Droplets struck Ashley’s dress. Someone gasped. A chair moved. A knife clattered to the floor.

James froze.

For one perfect second, he looked ridiculous.

Then rage flooded his face.

“Laura Winters,” he snapped, using my maiden name the way he did only when he wanted to shame me, “have you lost your mind?”

I set the empty glass down.

“You are humiliating yourself,” I said.

Ashley clutched James’s arm.

“Oh my God, Laura, why would you do that?” Her voice trembled beautifully. “James, did I say something wrong? Did I upset her?”

I picked up a clean napkin and wiped my fingers as if I had merely handled condensation.

“Sorry,” I said. “My hand slipped.”

James slammed his glass onto the table.

“Apologize to Ashley. Now.”

I smiled.

Not warmly.

“Oh, Ashley,” I said, turning toward her, my voice soft enough that people had to lean in. “Why don’t you explain first? Why did you text my husband at two in the morning saying, Miss you?”