Veritas Unveiled

Olivia’s POV :

My lips ache from forcing the same polite curve I’ve worn for a decade . I glide through the Waldorf Astoria’s grand ballroom , my emerald gown catching the glow of chandeliers that drip like liquid starlight.

The air hums ; jazz notes curl from a quartet in the corner, glasses clink like tiny bells , and whispers of Manhattan’s elite weave through the crowd. My chest feels tight , as if I’m sipping air through a straw . Marcus, my husband , is late again, his absence a familiar bruise blooming beneath my ribs .

“Olivia , you’re radiant!”

Sophia Reyes , my best friend, air-kisses my cheek, her dark curls brushing my shoulder. Her journalist’s eyes , sharp as a camera lens, study me.

“Where’s Marcus ? Closing another deal ?”

“Something like that ,” I say , my voice light despite the twist in my gut . My fingers graze the diamond bracelet he gave me last anniversary ; cold, heavy, like a shackle disguised as a gift .

“You’re scaring me , Liv,” she says, softer , her hand lingering on my arm. “ You’re too quiet tonight .”

“Just tired,” I lie , sipping champagne. The bubbles sear my throat, sharp and bitter. “I’ll find him.”

Sophia’s brow arches, skeptical. “Holler if you need backup, okay?”

“ Always ,” I say , forcing a smile that feels like glass.

I weave through sequined gowns and tailored tuxedos , my heels sinking into the plush crimson carpet . The gala’s for children’s hospitals , my heart’s work ; the one thing Marcus hasn’t stripped from me.

He calls it “ pointless pageantry ,” his voice dripping with disdain when I pitch fundraisers over dinner . My eyes dart across the ballroom — where is he ?

A low , smug laugh stops me cold, filtering through a velvet curtain near the rosewood-paneled terrace doors . Marcus’s voice ; unmistakable, laced with that charming arrogance he wields like a weapon .

“You’re the spark I need , Chloe,” he says. “Olivia’s a boring charity case , clinging to my name.”

My breath catches in my throat , a needle piercing my throat.

Chloe Beaumont, that upstart designer with her bleached highlights and imitative dresses , giggles ; a sharp, glittering sound that cuts deeper than his words .

“Poor Olivia ,” she purrs . “No edge , no fire.”

My hands tremble , the champagne flute nearly slipping from my fingers . I edge closer , my pulse roaring louder than the quartet’s saxophone . Through a slit in the curtain , I see them ; Marcus’s hand sliding down Chloe’s back , her scarlet dress clinging like a lover’s promise .

My stomach lurches ; tears prick my eyes, sharp as shattered crystal .

“ Her gown’s so dated ,” Chloe says , leaning into him, her lips brushing his ear . “Like she’s stuck in a museum.”

“She is a museum,” Marcus