I had barely sat down at the charity gala when my husband’s new assistant slapped me across the face.
The sound cracked through the ballroom louder than the string quartet playing in the gallery. It was a sharp, stinging report that seemed to echo off the vaulted ceilings.
For one stunned second, nobody moved. Crystal glasses froze halfway to painted lips. Men in tuxedos turned away from the auction stage. Women in designer gowns stopped their whispering.
And my husband, Daniel Whitaker, went so pale I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
The woman standing in front of me was Vanessa Cole, his new executive assistant. She was twenty-six, with glossy black hair and a red dress that was just a little too short for a black-tie event. I had seen her name in emails, on travel schedules, and once on a hotel receipt Daniel claimed was a “booking error.”
I had never met her in person until that night. She hadn’t known I was coming, and clearly, Daniel hadn’t prepared her for the reality of his life.
She leaned over me, her eyes blazing with a strange, false confidence. “You have no manners!” she hissed, loud enough for the entire VIP table to hear. “That seat is reserved for someone important.”
I touched my cheek. It was burning, the skin tightening under the heat of the impact. My hand was shaking, but not from fear.
I looked at the gold-embossed name card sitting beside my plate. It was sitting right there in plain sight.
Eleanor Whitaker.
My name. My identity. The name of the woman who had built the very walls we were standing within.