"You look beautiful tonight."
Caspian's hand settles on my lower back as we step through the gilded doors of Le Bernardin, guiding me past white-draped tables and flickering candles. The touch feels rehearsed, like we've practiced this choreography a thousand times. We have.
This is what trying looks like.
"Your parents are already here," I say, spotting Victor's silver hair across the room. "With the Ashfords."
"The acquisition depends on this dinner." His voice is low, meant only for me. "Charles Ashford controls enough capital to make or break the deal."
So smile, Elara. Perform.
Victor Voss rises as we approach, but his eyes slide past me to grip his son's shoulder.
"Caspian. Good, you're on time. Charles and I were just discussing the quarterly projections."
"Elara." Rowena's gaze sweeps over my navy Valentino dress, the one I spent three hours choosing. Her lips thin. "Darling, you look... rested."
The word lands like a slap wrapped in silk.
"Thank you, Rowena." I take my seat, the smile fixed on my face. "You look wonderful as always."
She doesn't acknowledge the compliment. Instead, she turns to Mrs. Ashford.
"Patricia, you must tell me where you found that divine necklace."
Caspian is already deep in conversation with Victor and Charles. I'm left at the edge, smiling at strangers, invisible in plain sight.
Then the sixth chair makes sense.
"I'm so sorry I'm late."
A woman glides to the table, tall and willowy, with honey-blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders. She moves like someone who has never doubted her place in any room.
"Traffic from the gallery was absolutely brutal."
"Genevieve, darling!"
Rowena's face transforms into genuine delight I've never seen directed at me.
"We were just telling Caspian how well your opening went. Weren't we, Caspian?"
My husband's eyes flick to the newcomer with polite interest.
"I heard the reviews were excellent. Congratulations."
"You're too kind."
Genevieve takes the seat beside him—beside him, while I've somehow been maneuvered to the far end between Victor and Charles.
"I simply must show you the piece we acquired from Milan. It reminded me of that conversation we had at the Met gala."
She pulls out her phone, leaning close. Her manicured fingers rest on his forearm like they belong there.
Caspian doesn't pull away.
My grip on the wine glass tightens until I fear it might shatter.
"Tell me about this gallery," he says, and his voice holds more warmth than I've heard in months. "I didn't realize you'd taken over the curation yourself."
Genevieve's laugh is a perfect crystal bell.
"After the disaster with the previous director, someone had to step in. Daddy always says I'm too much of a perfectionist, but I think that's rather the point of excellence, don't you?"
Look at me. Please, just look at me.
"Elara, dear." Rowena's voice cuts across the table like a blade. "Remind me—what is it you do now?"
Every conversation stops.
"I was working in brand strategy before—"
"Oh, I know you had that little job before the wedding." She waves her hand dismissively. "I assumed you'd given it up to focus on... well."
Her gesture encompasses my entire existence and finds it wanting.
"Supporting Caspian, of course."
The silence suffocates.
"Actually, I've been considering—"
But Rowena has already turned back to Genevieve.
"Gen manages a gallery and sits on three charity boards. I don't know how she finds the time."
"One simply makes time for what matters," Genevieve says, and her eyes flick to Caspian.
I catch my husband's gaze across the expanse of white linen and crystal.
Say something. Defend me. See me.
He holds my stare for one heartbeat.
Then looks away.
The dismissal is so casual it feels like someone has just slid a blade between my ribs.
"Patricia, how are those grandchildren of yours?" Rowena asks, her voice dripping with warmth. "I saw the photos from the christening. Absolutely precious."
"Oh, they're wonderful." Mrs. Ashford beams. "Charlotte just had her third, can you believe it? And Genevieve's brother and his wife are expecting twins in the fall."
"Twins!" Rowena presses a hand to her chest. "How marvelous. Your family certainly knows how to carry on a legacy."
The word legacy lands on the table like a grenade.
Victor leans back in his chair, swirling his scotch.
"Of course, Genevieve comes from excellent stock," he announces to Charles, loud enough for the entire table to hear. "Good hips. The Ashford women have never had trouble in that department."
Every eye at the table slides to me. To my flat stomach. To the absence that defines my worth in this family.
Rowena's smile is a knife twisting.
Genevieve has the grace to look uncomfortable.
Caspian stares at his plate.
He knows. He sees exactly what they're doing, and he's choosing silence.
"Speaking of which," Rowena continues, "I was just telling Genevieve that she must come to the Hamptons with us this summer. Caspian needs someone who can actually keep up with him on the tennis court." She pins me with a look of practiced innocence. "Elara, you don't play, do you?"
She doesn't wait for my answer.
"No, I didn't think so. Gen was captain of her team at Yale. Caspian, didn't you say you missed having a real partner?"
His response is a murmur too low to hear.
But I hear what he doesn't say.
My wife is sitting right here.
I set my napkin on the table with precise, deliberate movements.
"If you'll excuse me."
My voice comes out steady, and I'm proud of that small victory.
"Elara."
Caspian finally—finally—looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes that might be concern or might be irritation at the disruption.
"Where are you—"
"I'm not feeling well. Please, don't let me interrupt. You all seem to be having such a lovely time."
I make it halfway across the restaurant before fingers close around my elbow.
"Elara, wait."
Caspian's grip is firm and almost painful.
"You can't just leave. This deal is critical to my family."
Your family.
I turn slowly, and whatever he sees in my face makes his grip loosen.
"Your family," I repeat. "The ones who just reminded an entire table that I'm defective."
"That's not—" He stops. Swallows. "They didn't mean it like that."
"You know what I think about sometimes, Caspian?" A laugh escapes me, hollow and brittle. "I think maybe our baby knew. Maybe she could feel, even then, that her father would never fight for what he claims is his."
I step closer, close enough to see the flash of pain in his ice-blue eyes.
"Maybe she decided this family wasn't worth being born into."
His face goes white.
"Elara—"
"Go back to your deal." I pull my arm free. "Go back to Genevieve. Her hips are excellent, I hear."
I walk out of the restaurant without looking back.
My hands don't start shaking until I reach the street. The tears don't come until I'm in the cab, watching the city blur past through rain-streaked windows.
My phone buzzes. Caspian.
I turn it off.
Back at the penthouse, I stand in the bathroom and stare at my reflection. This woman in the expensive dress. The careful makeup. The wife who just sat through her own humiliation.
This is what trying looks like.
I peel off the Valentino and leave it crumpled on the marble floor.
I don't hear Caspian come home.
I'm not sure he does.