The carpeted aisle of the Crescent Grand ballroom felt endless, but my footsteps were light.
Around me, hundreds of high-profile investors, city officials, and executives were still clapping softly.
On stage, Mark was leaning down, whispering something into Vanessa’s ear. She beamed, resting her manicured hand gently on his tuxedo jacket.
They looked like the picture-perfect corporate couple.
Except Mark was married to me.
And his son was currently sleeping under a thin hospital blanket three miles away.
As I reached the midpoint of the room, a few heads began to turn.
I wasn’t wearing a designer gown.
I was wearing a plain dark blazer, simple trousers, and sensible flats—the same clothes I had been wearing for thirty-six hours straight in Toby’s hospital room.
I stood out like a stain on white velvet.
Mark’s gaze swept across the crowd, smiling wide, until his eyes hit mine.
His smile froze.
The color drained from his face so fast it was almost comical.
His hand, still resting on Vanessa’s waist, went entirely stiff.
Vanessa noticed the sudden change in his posture and followed his gaze.
When she saw me walking calmly toward the stage, her brows pulled together in mild annoyance, as if a stray waitress had walked into her shot.
Mark quickly stepped forward to the edge of the stage, attempting to cut me off before I reached the main staircase. He kept his microphone close to his chest, whispering harshly under his breath while trying to maintain a tight, fake smile for the crowd.
“Clara? What are you doing here?” his low voice hissed through gritted teeth. “Go home. We’ll talk later.”
I didn’t stop.
I walked right up the side stairs and stepped onto the polished stage.
The murmurs in the crowd began to swell.
People were leaning in.
Chins were turning.
Phones were being quietly raised.
“Clara, I’m warning you, don’t do this,” Mark whispered, his eyes flashing with panic as he stepped directly in front of me. “This is the biggest night of my career. Stop being hysterical.”
*Hysterical.*
That was always his favorite word whenever I brought up his absence, his coldness, or his neglect.
I looked him dead in the eye.
“I’m not hysterical, Mark,” I said in a clear, measured voice. “I’m just delivering your mail.”
Before he could reach out and grab my arm, I stepped around him and walked straight toward the front row of VIP tables.
Sitting at the central table was Arthur Sterling—the primary investor, majority owner of the hotel group, and the man who held Mark’s entire career in the palm of his hand.
Arthur was an elderly man with piercing blue eyes and a reputation for zero tolerance when it came to corporate misconduct.
“Mr. Sterling,” I said, speaking loudly enough for the microphone near Mark to catch every word.
The sound echoed sharply across the room.
Mark lunged toward me. “Clara, get off the stage now!”
“Let her speak,” Arthur Sterling’s deep, authoritative voice cut through the air. He raised a single hand, stopping Mark dead in his tracks.
The entire ballroom went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.
I opened the manila folder.
“Mr. Sterling, as the Managing Partner of Crescent Grand Holdings, I believe you should review these documents before you finalize Mark’s promotion to Regional Vice President tonight.”
I handed the thick stack of paper directly to Arthur.
