Chapter 3 - THE GOWN I DECIDED TO WEAR
For twenty-four hours, I considered staying home.
Not because Cassidy had won.
Because the idea of hundreds of people seeing my back still made my skin crawl.
Scars have memories.
Mine remembered heat.
Operating rooms.
Nurses peeling dressings away while I bit down on towels so no one would hear me scream.
Preston had turned those memories into a weapon.
That was what changed my mind.
The next afternoon, I walked into Gideon’s office carrying the invitation.
“I’m going.”
He looked up.
“To the gala?”
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped to the dress code.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because they expect me to hide.”
He stood slowly.
“What do you need?”
“I need a lawyer.”
“Already arranged for you to interview three.”
“I need the forensic audit.”
“You’ll get whatever your attorney is entitled to.”
“And I need a dress.”
That surprised him.
“I may be wealthy, Vivian, but that is outside my professional expertise.”
I almost smiled.
“I’m not asking you to pick it.”
I found the gown myself.
Black silk.
High neckline.
Simple front.
Completely open back.
When I tried it on, I stood before the mirror for almost ten minutes.
My scars crossed from my left shoulder to my lower back.
Pale in some places.
Dark and raised in others.
For years, Preston had convinced me they made me ugly.
That night, for the first time, I tried looking at them differently.
They were evidence.
I had walked into a burning building for someone I loved.
The shame belonged to the man who mocked me afterward.
Not to me.
On the morning of the gala, my attorney, Naomi Clarke, filed for divorce under seal and moved to freeze certain marital assets before Preston could transfer them.
Then she discovered something strange.
“Vivian, has Preston ever taken out a life insurance policy on you?”
My stomach tightened.
“I don’t think so.”
“He has.”
“How much?”
“Twelve million dollars.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Four months after the fire.”
“Who is the beneficiary?”
“Preston.”
I felt cold.
Naomi continued.
“The policy was increased eighteen months ago.”
“To what?”
“Thirty million.”
I stopped breathing.
Preston complained that my physical therapy was too expensive.
Yet he paid premiums on thirty million dollars of insurance covering my life.
“Why increase it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
That evening, I arrived at the gala alone.
The ballroom occupied the top floor of the Ashford Grand.
Crystal chandeliers.
Champagne.
Politicians.
Billionaires.
Women in designer gowns.
Then I stepped out of the elevator.
Conversation faded.
People stared.
Not because I was hiding my scars.
Because I wasn’t.
I walked into the room with my shoulders straight.
Across the ballroom, Cassidy saw me.
Her smile disappeared.
She wore silver.
Pregnancy barely visible beneath the fabric.
Preston stood beside her.
He looked at my exposed back.
Then at my face.
For once, my husband had nothing cruel to say.
Gideon appeared near the stage in a midnight tuxedo.
His eyes met mine.
He did not look at my scars first.
He looked at me.
That mattered.
Then Cassidy recovered.
She approached with a photographer.
“Vivian,” she said sweetly. “How brave.”
I smiled.
“Cassidy. How pregnant.”
Her face froze.
Preston nearly dropped his champagne.
People nearby heard.
Good.
Then a waiter bumped Cassidy’s arm.
Her clutch fell open.
Something slid across the marble floor.
A prescription bottle.
I bent automatically to pick it up.
Cassidy snatched it away.
Too late.
I had seen the label.
The medication was not prenatal.
I knew the name because I had taken it after my burn surgeries.
A strong sedative.
Prescribed to:
PRESTON BARRETT.
May you like
But the dispensing date was five years earlier.
Three days before the fire.
