I looked down at the baby. She had fallen asleep, milk drunkenness slackening her features. She looked peaceful. Safe.
“She doesn’t deserve you,” I whispered into the darkness. “And she is not going to get away with this.”
I didn’t sleep. I sat in that chair, watching the snow fall, and plotted. I wasn’t going to call the police—not yet. That was too easy. Too private. Jennifer lived for the public eye. She lived for the applause.
If she wanted a show, I would give her the performance of a lifetime.
When the sun rose, painting the Manhattan skyline in bruised purples and greys, I stood up. My resolve was harder than diamonds.
I showered. I put on my most severe, elegant black dress—the one I wore to defend my dissertation. I applied my makeup with surgical care. I packed the diaper bag. I strapped the baby into the brand-new carrier Jennifer had so helpfully provided.
I looked in the mirror. The tired researcher was gone. In her place stood an avenging angel.
“Shall we go?” I asked the sleeping baby. “I think it’s time we crashed a party.”
The Blue Garden on Fifth Avenue was the kind of place that made you feel poor just by breathing the air. It was a cathedral of excess—French blue silk curtains, floors of Italian marble that shone like water, and chandeliers the size of small cars dripping crystals from the ceiling.
It was 1:00 PM. The anniversary luncheon was in full swing.
I walked past the bewildered maître d’, ignoring his sputtered “Madame, do you have a reservation?” I moved with the momentum of a freight train.
The double doors to the main ballroom were closed. I could hear a string quartet playing Vivaldi inside. I could hear the tinkling of champagne flutes and the murmur of polite, wealthy society.
I pushed the doors open.
They swung wide with a heavy, deliberate thud that echoed through the room.
The noise inside didn’t stop immediately; it rippled away, silence spreading from the door outward like a wave, until the only sound was the string quartet, who trailed off discordantly.
Two hundred heads turned.
The room was a sea of pastels and diamonds. And there, at the head table, sat the royal couple.
Jennifer looked breathtaking. She was wearing a custom Oscar de la Renta gown, layers of blue tulle and silver lamé that shimmered under the lights. She wore a diamond tiara. She looked like Cinderella.
Next to her, Michael stood with a glass of champagne raised, mid-toast. He looked handsome, successful, and utterly oblivious.
