“There’s Harrington,” he whispered, spotting the acting CEO by an ice sculpture. “Stay close, but don’t speak unless spoken to.”
Arthur Harrington was a decent man. He was the only person at the company—besides my legal team—who knew who I really was. For months, we’d met discreetly to map the turnaround strategy.
When Grant approached, Harrington’s eyes brightened—not for Grant, but for me.
“Grant!” Harrington boomed, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Mr. Harrington,” Grant said, puffing his chest. He shifted subtly, trying to block Harrington’s view of me, as if I were something embarrassing.
“And who is this?” Harrington asked, stepping around him to face me, smiling with genuine respect. “I don’t believe I’ve officially met your wife.”
Grant froze. Panic flashed in his eyes. Shame. He didn’t want the CEO to know he was married to a “simple housewife.” He wanted to look unburdened—married only to his ambition.
Or he simply didn’t think I looked trophy enough.
“Oh—uh,” Grant stammered, laughing too high. “No, no, Mr. Harrington. This isn’t my wife.”
A cold knot tightened in my stomach.
Don’t, Grant. Don’t you dare.
