The laughter in the ballroom was loud enough to drown a scream.
Amelia Vale stood in the center of it all, the music, the lights, the glittering elites sipping champagne like water, and felt utterly, excruciatingly alone.
Her satin gown clung perfectly to her body, custom made in Paris.
Her hair was curled into effortless waves.
Not a flaw to be found.
She was the picture of elegance, poised like the diamond she wore around her neck.
And yet, she had never felt so invisible.
"Smile, darling," Richard murmured beside her, flashing his politician's grin to a group of board members. "You look like you're thinking."
He didn't wait for her reply.
He never did anymore.
Amelia turned the corners of her mouth upward, but her eyes remained vacant.
The smile didn't reach there anymore, hadn't in years.
She scanned the crowd absently, pretending to be engaged while her mind wandered to simpler times. College nights wrapped in blankets and Chinese takeout with Richard.
His laugh, once genuine. His hands, once warm.
That man was long gone. Replaced by the ice beside her, in a tailored suit and a wallet full of power.
Tonight's gala was a celebration of ValeTech's newest medical AI patent, a flashy achievement meant to further inflate Richard's already massive ego.
He thrived in these spaces. Praise, admiration, envy, he drank it all in like oxygen.
And Amelia? She was just another accessory on his arm. A role she had learned to play to perfection.
Until recently.
Lately, she'd begun to feel the emptiness stretch a little too far. Like a beautiful bird inside a cage made of gold and glass, decorative, adored, and utterly trapped.
"Richard," she said softly, attempting to reach him as he accepted another congratulations. "May I have a word?"
He turned only slightly, irritation flickering across his brow. "Now?"
Amelia held her breath. "It's about your late nights."
His eyes sharpened. "Don't start."
She blinked. "I'm not accusing. I'm just..."
"Of course you are. You always are, with those eyes that scream victimhood," he snapped in a low voice. "All you do is sit pretty at home. What could possibly bother you?"
The words hit like a slap, though his voice never rose.
She recoiled slightly, and his expression smoothed, not with remorse, but calculation.
"Don't make a scene," he added, sipping his champagne. "There are cameras everywhere."
Amelia felt the heat rush to her face. Not from embarrassment. From shame. For still being here. For still hoping he'd remember how to love her.
"I think I need some air," she whispered.
Richard didn't respond. She turned and walked away from the marble floor, heels clicking softly against the polished tile, careful not to stumble, not in front of the wolves.
The terrace was blessedly empty. A soft wind brushed against her bare shoulders, tugging at the loose strands of her hair.
She leaned against the cool railing, the world spinning quietly below her, glittering cars, blinding billboards, high society chaos buzzing just beneath her feet.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The silence was a balm.
Until it wasn't.
"Quite the party," a deep voice said from behind her.
She turned sharply.
A man stood near the archway, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt rolled at the sleeves. No tie. No designer name tags.
He looked out of place, not unkempt, just… raw. Real.
"I didn't mean to intrude," he said, holding up his hands in peace. "I was just checking the exterior lighting. New installation."
She blinked. "You're staff?"
"Sort of. Contracted." His voice was even, unbothered. "Ethan. Ethan Blake."
She hesitated. "Amelia Vale."
"I know."
Of course he did. Her face had graced magazines, event invites, and socialite blogs for years. Always with Richard. Always in the background.
"You looked like you needed a minute," he said quietly, gesturing toward the empty terrace.
"Was I that obvious?"
He offered a half smile. "You were holding your breath."
She laughed softly, a genuine sound, short and sad. "I didn't even notice."
Ethan stepped closer, but not too close. He leaned against the opposite railing, watching the city skyline.
"I don't belong here either," he said after a pause.
Amelia tilted her head. "Why do you say that?"
"These people," he gestured vaguely toward the ballroom inside, "they speak in code. Power, money, charm. All performative. I prefer truth. Messy, real truth."
She studied him. There was something in his eyes, not pity, not interest. Recognition.
And it made her chest ache.
"I'm not sure I know what truth is anymore," she admitted, surprising herself.
Ethan looked at her then, really looked.
"It's whatever still hurts when no one's looking."
A lump formed in her throat.
Before she could reply, the terrace door swung open again. The coldness returned like a tide.
"Amelia," Richard barked. "What are you doing out here?"
She straightened instinctively. "Just getting some air."
He barely looked at Ethan. "You're needed. Now."
With a last glance, unreadable, Ethan nodded at her and disappeared down the steps toward the side entrance. No goodbye. No lingering looks.
Richard stepped closer, eyes sharp. "And who the hell was that?"
"A contractor," she said, voice even.
He smirked. "You really are that bored, huh?"
She flinched.
He turned, walking away. No hand to hold. No apology. Just command.
She followed him inside, slipping her mask back on like second skin. The perfect wife. The flawless doll.
The ballroom hadn't changed in the few minutes Amelia had been gone, still dazzling, still insufferable. But the moment she stepped back inside, it felt different. Heavier. The kind of heavy that lived in glances and whispers and fake, polished grins.
And at the center of it all, like a flame drawing every moth, was her.
Isla Monroe.
Younger, louder, bolder. With perfect red lips that curved like knives and a dress that sparkled just enough to command attention without appearing desperate, though Amelia now knew better.
She had seen Isla before, circling Richard at a board dinner a month ago. Then again at a gallery event. Always close. Always smiling a little too much. Now, she was here, clinking glasses with CEOs like she belonged.
And somehow, she was wearing Amelia's necklace.
Amelia's stomach twisted. That was no coincidence.
"Ah, there you are," Isla said sweetly when their eyes met. Her voice was dipped in honey and arsenic. "You looked a little... flushed. Everything okay?"
Amelia kept her expression neutral. "Just needed air."
"I hope you didn't miss the speech." Isla's smile widened, her hand casually brushing Richard's arm. "Your husband was incredible. Everyone was hanging on his every word."
Richard didn't flinch. Didn't even look at Amelia.
Her cheeks burned.