My Husband Saved His Mistress and Let Me Die

The champagne in my glass had gone warm, but the chill radiating from my husband was absolute. We stood twenty stories above Seattle, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked floor-to-ceiling windows of the gala, yet Caleb wasn’t looking at the view. He wasn’t looking at me, either.

His thumb hovered over his phone screen, the blue light casting a ghostly pallor on his jaw. He was typing. Again.

"Caleb," I said, keeping my voice low, a practiced calm I’d perfected over five years of marriage. " The Board Chairman is looking this way. You might want to pretend you’re here with your wife."

He didn't flinch. He didn’t even look up. "It’s a crisis, Estelle. Logistics for the merger."

"The merger closed three weeks ago."

His head snapped up then, eyes narrowing. It wasn't guilt I saw there; it was annoyance. The look a parent gives a pestering child. "Don't start, Estelle. Not here."

"I’m not starting anything. I’m asking you to be present."

"I have to take this," he muttered, already turning his back to me. He strode toward the balcony doors, sliding them open just enough to slip into the wind and rain. Through the glass, I watched him lift the phone to his ear, his posture shifting from rigid defense to something softer. Something intimate.

I gripped the stem of my flute until my knuckles turned white.

"He’s missing the best speeches," a deep voice murmured beside me.

I unclenched my hand, turning to find Soren Bishop watching me. Caleb’s business partner and best friend held two tumblers of whiskey, offering one to me. He didn’t look at the balcony. He was looking at the tension in my shoulders.

"I think champagne has lost its appeal," I said, trading my glass for the amber liquid. "Thank you, Soren."

"You don't have to cover for him, Estelle," Soren said, his voice rougher than usual. He took a sip, his gaze finally flicking toward the balcony where Caleb was laughing—actually laughing—into the receiver. "He’s an idiot."

"He’s stressed," I lied, the taste of whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. "Business never sleeps."

Soren turned fully toward me, his dark eyes searching mine. He didn't buy it. He never did. "Business doesn't make him smile like that. Not anymore."

The air in the room shifted before I could answer. A sharp pop, like a gunshot, echoed from the kitchen doors, followed instantly by the shriek of the fire alarm. The gentle murmur of the gala shattered into screams.

Thick, black smoke billowed into the ballroom with terrifying speed, rolling over the ceiling like an inverted wave. The lights flickered and died, plunging us into a chaotic gray twilight.

"Move!" Soren grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Estelle, move!"

The crowd surged toward the main exit, a stampede of tuxedos and gowns. I stumbled, my heel catching on the plush carpet, and fell hard against a heavy catering table. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and before I