VICTORIA HALE. ROBERT HALE. DANIEL HALE. ELISE HALE.
And beside mine, written in elegant gold script: CELESTE MARROW.
Celeste raised her champagne glass. “Hi, Elise.”
She knew my name.
Naturally she did.
A cluster of relatives fell silent. Someone cleared their throat. Daniel’s sister, the bride, glanced over from the dance floor, then quickly turned away. Everyone knew. Everyone had known before me.
Victoria leaned nearer, her perfume cold and costly. “We thought Celeste should sit with people who make Daniel happy tonight.”
Daniel murmured, “Mom.”
“No,” I said softly. “Let her finish.”
Victoria blinked, pleased. She had expected crying. An outburst. Evidence that I was the hysterical wife Daniel had apparently been painting me as.
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