Page 9 of Iridescent
I give her my most tooth-aching smile and find my way upstairs. Outside, the sky is nearly dark. My husband will be home any minute now, which means I have very little time to prepare.
A flare of excitement moves through me, brighter than anything I have felt all afternoon.
Tonight can still be salvaged.
Dinner. Candles. Wine. Maybe sex, if I can remember how to be seductive. God knows it has been too long since Xavier and I touched each other without the weight of everything else in the room.
The staff has spent hours vanishing in and out with flowers, crystal, and linen, transforming the dining room around a table for two. It will be perfect.
I take the stairs two at a time and miss a step.
My hand shoots to the banister, fingers closing around polished wood as the world tilts. I give my head a sharp shake, willing the dizziness back into its cage. It has been happening too often these days, the light-headedness, the nausea, the appetite reduced to almost nothing.
An empty stomach gives me the explanation I need. I haven’t eaten all day, too consumed by preparations and the foolish, breathless excitement of sharing a meal with my husband for the first time in months.
The staircase slowly rights itself, and I resume my ascent with a giddiness I should be too grown to feel.
My attention snares on the wedding ring glittering beneath the soft cove lights, bright as a star some old god forgot to reclaim.
Yiayia used to say light found at the right moment was never accidental. It arrived as warning, blessing, or omen.
The difference was what you were willing to see.
Tonight, I choose blessing.
Everything is going to be fine.
It has to be. Light will find its way back into our days. Into us.
Humming under my breath, I step into our bedroom with a grin I do not bother suppressing.
Chapter 2
The stars refuse me tonight.
Moonlight streams through the high windows, limning the table in pale blue as candle wax collapses into uneven pools in the silver holders. The Irouléguy rouge I handpicked sits untouched beside Xavier’s empty glass, and thepoulet basquaisehas gone cold under a lid Colette kept checking until I sent her to bed an hour ago.
I’m sitting at the once-candlelit dining table in the dress I chose for my husband, staring at my phone as its glow washes over a string of unanswered messages—learning exactly how long hope can humiliate a woman before the lesson sticks.
This morning, on his way out, he kissed me like a habit and said, “Happy anniversary, amor. I’ll be home early tonight.”
I believed him because no matter how busy Xavier became, he had never missed this day. Not once.
My legs are numb now, and the silk of my dress does nothing against thecold sinking into my bones.
The digital clock flicks another minute forward.
It is past midnight.
My husband was supposed to be home hours ago, but I haven’t heard from him since he walked out this morning. Every text sits unanswered. Every call goes straight to voicemail.
I checked in with his office earlier, as I had too many times these past few months, and his executive assistant gave me the same rehearsed answer with such sanitized sympathy I almost thanked her for the humiliation.
The embarrassment was antiquated and palpable. One would think repetition would dull the sting.
It didn’t.
It bloomed in my throat. Behind my ribs. Across every inch of skin trapped inside this decadent mistake of a dress.
