I set my glass down on the nearest table without a sound. The red stain bloomed across my chest like a wound, but my hands were steady. Rebecca watched me, waiting for tears, for the flustered apology, for the small woman she believed I was to scramble for napkins and thank her for the humiliation. Instead I reached into my clutch and pulled out a single black card, the kind most people in that room had only heard rumors about.

I turned toward the stage where a microphone stood beside the podium reserved for the evening’s chairman announcement. Whitmore had already begun scanning the crowd, searching for me, his face pale with the panic of a man who knew the truth was about to walk into the light. Marcus finally noticed the shift in the room, the way heads were turning not toward the wine on my dress but toward the way I was moving, calm and deliberate, straight toward the front. “Nadia,” he hissed, grabbing my arm. “What are you doing? Sit down.” I looked at his hand on my sleeve, then at his face, and for the first time in four years I let him see exactly who he had married.