PART 2
After I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed holding the velvet box like it was all that remained of the woman I used to be. Three years earlier, I’d walked out of my father’s house in a storm, convinced Spencer’s love was worth more than any name.
My father had warned me back then that if I walked out that door for that man, I shouldn’t come back crying. I walked out anyway. And I cried too late.
My phone buzzed again — Paisley sending a video from the party. Chandeliers, glasses, music, women dressed like they’d stepped out of a luxury magazine filled the screen.
The camera zoomed in on Spencer, talking with a group of businessmen, cold, confident, proud. Then Paisley’s hand appeared, adjusting his tie like she was staking a claim. She looked into the camera and mouthed: “He’s mine.”
I snapped out of my daze with a calm that scared me. I looked at my ring finger, still carrying the faint mark from the ring Spencer had asked me to take off three days earlier because, in his words, it “didn’t look good.” The next day I saw a huge diamond on Paisley’s hand.
Someone knocked. “Ma’am,” Gladys said, “there’s a gentleman downstairs saying he’s here for you. He arrived in a Bentley.”
I practically ran downstairs. In the living room stood Joel, my father’s driver since I was a child, tall, dressed in black, his eyes carefully averted.
“Miss Phoebe, Mr. Harrell sent me for you,” Joel said respectfully.
Gladys’s mouth fell open, completely confused. To her, I’d always been the quiet, nearly invisible wife with no family and no past.
“Give me a moment, Joel,” I said, feeling something surge back into me. “I need to change.”
But Joel hadn’t come alone. Behind him were two stylists, a makeup artist, and a rack loaded with dresses my father had sent. Silk, rhinestones, embroidery, colors that seemed to burn.
I picked a long, simple red dress, no unnecessary embellishment. Then I opened my jewelry box and took out the ruby necklace my father had given me for my eighteenth birthday.
“The Rose of Fire,” one of the stylists whispered in awe. “Nobody’s seen this since that event in Geneva.”
Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I wasn’t the humiliated woman in a worn-out dress anymore, because I was Phoebe Harrell, daughter of Raymond Harrell.
On the way to the hotel, Joel told me my father had kept cleaning my old room every week. That no one dared say my name at Christmas because his eyes would fill with pain. That his health had gotten worse since I left.
I swallowed hard. “Drive faster, please,” I said.
The Bentley pulled up in front of the Grandview Hotel. The staff froze as I stepped out. I didn’t have an invitation. I didn’t need one.
I took the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened, music, laughter, and clinking glasses hit me like a wave.
Spencer stood in the middle of the room. Paisley, clinging to his arm, kissed his cheek in front of everyone. He didn’t pull away.
A young businessman approached. “Never seen her before. Whose family is she from?” he murmured to a friend.
I didn’t respond. He followed my gaze toward Spencer and smiled.
“Ah, Mr. Conway,” he said to me. “Word is he’s about to announce something with Paisley Daley. Though rumor has it he’s got a secret wife — a woman he can’t be seen with in public.”
I gave him a cold smile. “Is that what they say?” I asked.
Then I walked toward my husband, and the crowd parted, for no reason anyone could name. Spencer looked up and froze.
“Mr. Conway,” I said, lifting my glass. “What a coincidence.”
His face went white instantly. Paisley’s eyes flashed with anger.
“What are you doing here?” Paisley hissed. “You weren’t invited.”
I didn’t even look at her. “Spencer, is this how you greet your wife?” I asked.
The whole room went silent. He grabbed my arm hard and pulled me toward a pillar.
“You’re insane,” Spencer hissed. “You have three minutes to leave, or I’ll drag you out myself.”
Paisley came up behind him with a glass of red wine. “You don’t get it, Phoebe. He’s mine,” she said, and threw the wine at my dress.
I caught her wrist before she could enjoy it. The glass hit the marble and shattered loudly. Spencer shouted my name in front of everyone.
“My apologies,” he said afterward, forcing a smile at the crowd. “My wife isn’t quite well. I’ll have her sent home.”
Then I saw the ballroom doors open behind him. A gray-haired man walked in flanked by four bodyguards and three of the country’s most powerful businessmen.
My father had arrived. And no one in that room was ready for what he was about to say.
