“That dress will only embarrass me,” I heard my husband say from the second floor, while I stood in front of the mirror with freezing hands.
Spencer Conway had just stepped out of his black SUV at our wealthy estate in Shaker Heights, impeccably dressed in his gray suit, as if he were about to receive an award and not break my heart for the last time. Mrs. Gladys, the housekeeper, carefully asked him if I should get out. He didn’t even glance up at my window.
“No need. I’ll go with Paisley tonight,” Spencer replied coldly.
I gripped the curtain tightly until my nails dug into my palm. I was wearing the only formal dress I still owned, a navy blue one I had bought before marrying Spencer. The cuffs were already worn.
In three years, I never asked him for money, never used my last name, and never boasted about who my father was. I thought humility would make him love me. I thought if I made myself small, he would see me as more approachable. How foolish I was.
Then I heard heels clicking on the marble floor. Paisley Daley appeared on my husband’s arm, wearing a champagne-colored dress and a diamond necklace that sparkled mockingly. She clung to him with a cloying smile.
“Do I look pretty, Spencer?” Paisley asked, looking up at him.
He looked at her like he had never looked at me before. “You look perfect,” he said softly.
I went downstairs slowly. When Spencer saw me, he frowned as if I were a stain on his carpet. Paisley looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on the worn sleeves of my dress.
“Oh, so you’re the wife,” Paisley said, covering her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Now I understand why he never takes you anywhere.”
Spencer didn’t correct her. His silence was worse than a slap.
“The Apex Group’s annual event is too important,” Paisley continued, tossing her hair. “Businesspeople, politicians, foreign partners, real people attend. You’d be better off staying home, Phoebe. Looking like that, you might ruin his evening.”
I looked at my husband, waiting for a word, just one, but he only offered her his arm. “Let’s go. We’re running late,” Spencer said.
I saw them leave together. The engine disappeared into the night, and Mrs. Gladys approached with red eyes.
“Ma’am, shall I prepare something for you?” Mrs. Gladys asked gently.
“I’m not hungry,” I whispered.
I went up to my room, closed the door, and looked toward Euclid Avenue, where dinner was being held that night on the top floor of a luxury hotel. My cell phone vibrated, and it was a message from Paisley. I didn’t know how she had gotten my number.
It was a photo taken from the back seat of the truck. She was smiling and making a peace sign, while Spencer’s profile was visible in the reflection of the window. Below she wrote: “Tonight I’ll make him completely mine. Just you wait.”
I placed my cell phone on the table. I opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out an old red velvet box. Inside was a SIM card I hadn’t used in three years. I inserted it into the phone, and there was only one contact in the address book.
It was Dad.
My finger trembled on the screen before I pressed the dial tone. It rang once, twice, three times.
“Phoebe?” answered a deep, aged, incredulous voice.
My heart broke at the sound. “Dad, I want to go home,” I said.
On the other end there was a long silence. Then, Raymond Harrell, the man most feared by half of the country’s business community, spoke with a broken voice.
“My girl, I’m coming for you,” Raymond said.
And then I understood that that night was not going to end with tears, but with a truth so great that no one in that room could bear to look at it. I couldn’t believe what was about to happen.
PART 2
When I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the velvet box as if it were all that remained of the woman I once was. Three years ago, I left my father’s house in a storm, convinced that Spencer’s love was worth more than any name.
My father warned me back then that if I walked through that door for that man, I should not come back crying. I walked through it anyway, and I cried too late.
My phone vibrated again, and Paisley was sending me a video from the living room. Chandeliers, glasses, music, and women dressed like they belonged in luxury magazines filled the screen.
The camera zoomed in on Spencer, who was talking to several businessmen, looking cold, confident, and proud. Then Paisley’s hand appeared, adjusting his tie as if marking her territory. Finally, she looked at the camera and moved her lips silently to say: “It’s mine.”
I woke up from my daze with a calmness that frightened me. I looked at my ring finger, which still had the mark of the ring Spencer had asked me to take off three days earlier because, according to him, it didn’t look good. The next day I saw a huge diamond on Paisley’s hand.
Someone knocked on the door. “Madam,” said Gladys, “there’s a gentleman downstairs who says he’s come for you. He arrived in a Bentley.”
I practically ran downstairs. In the living room was Joel, my father’s driver since I was a child, standing tall, dressed in black, his eyes discreetly moved.
“Miss Phoebe, Mr. Harrell sent me for you,” Joel said respectfully.
Mrs. Gladys opened her mouth, completely confused. To her, I had always been a quiet, almost invisible wife, without family or a past.
“Wait a moment, Joel,” I said, feeling a surge of strength. “I need to change.”
But Joel hadn’t arrived alone. Behind him came two stylists, a makeup artist, and a rack full of dresses sent by my father. There was silk, rhinestones, embroidery, and colors that seemed to burn.
I chose a long, simple red dress, without unnecessary embellishments. Then I opened my jewelry box and took out the ruby necklace my father had given me for my eighteenth birthday.
“The Rose of Fire,” whispered a stylist in awe. “No one has seen her since that event in Geneva.”
When I saw myself in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself. I wasn’t the humiliated woman in an old dress, because I was Phoebe Harrell, daughter of Raymond Harrell.
On the way to the hotel, Joel told me that my father had continued cleaning my room every week. He told me that at Christmas no one could mention my name because his eyes would fill with pain, and that his health had worsened since I left.
I swallowed hard. “Drive faster, please,” I urged.
The Bentley pulled up in front of the luxury Grandview Hotel. The receptionists stood motionless as I stepped out, and though I didn’t have an invitation, I didn’t need one.
I took the elevator to the top floor. As the doors opened, the music, laughter, and clinking of glasses hit me like a wave.
