Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

The champagne was cold, but the sweat trickling down Christopher Haney's spine was hot.

He stood exactly half a step behind Hillary Mitchell, his posture slumped just enough to look submissive, but not enough to look like a hunchback. It was a calculated angle. Everything about Christopher was calculated.

The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a cavern of echoes and diamonds. The air smelled of expensive perfume, old stone, and the specific, metallic scent of judgment. Christopher held Hillary's clutch-a Judith Leiber crystal-encrusted thing that cost more than his foster mother's house-in both hands, like a sacred offering.

He felt the eyes on him.

They were heavy, sticky gazes from the Manhattan elite. He didn't need to look up to know what they were thinking. There's the parasite. The trophy husband. The man who married a trust fund.

Christopher let his shoulders round forward. He offered a weak, apologetic smile to a passing waiter. This was part of the package. The contract required him to be the perfect foil to Hillary's ice-queen dominance. If she was the diamond, he was the velvet cushion-dull, soft, and beneath her.

"Stop fidgeting," Hillary hissed. She didn't turn her head. Her smile remained fixed for the flashing cameras of the paparazzi line, but her voice was a razor blade.

"Sorry, darling," Christopher mumbled, pitching his voice to sound pathetic. "My feet hurt."

Hillary let out a sharp breath through her nose. "You're embarrassing me. Stand up straight."

Before Christopher could adjust his stance, a shadow fell over them. A heavy hand clapped onto Christopher's shoulder, jarring his bones.

"Well, if it isn't the happy couple."

Calhoun Steele. Hillary's ex-fiancé, and a man who wore his arrogance like a second skin. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit too well, smelling of scotch and aggressive musk.

Christopher flinched. He made sure the flinch was visible.

"Calhoun," Hillary said, her tone frosty. "You're drunk."

"And you're married to a golden retriever," Calhoun laughed. He leaned in, his weight pushing Christopher off balance. Calhoun held a flute of champagne in his other hand. With a tilt of his wrist that was too precise to be an accident, the amber liquid sloshed over the rim.

It splashed onto Christopher's lapel. The cheap rental fabric soaked it up instantly.

"Oops," Calhoun grinned, his teeth white and predatory. "My bad, Chris. Send me the bill for the dry cleaning. Oh, wait-Hillary pays your bills, doesn't she?"

The circle of socialites around them tittered. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound.

Christopher looked down at the stain. It was spreading, dark and wet against the black. He felt the cold liquid seep through to his shirt, touching his skin.

He didn't get angry. He didn't shove Calhoun.

He looked up, widening his eyes, letting his lower lip tremble just a fraction. "It's... it's okay, Mr. Steele. Accidents happen."

He reached for a napkin from a passing tray, his hands shaking. He dabbed at the stain frantically, looking like