Chapter 5: Table Eleven

Rowan introduced me to four hundred people as his wife, and nobody laughed.

It was Saturday night, the tenth anniversary party for Ashcroft Harbor Group, in a hotel ballroom with a ceiling painted gold.

I wore a navy dress from the rack in his closet, with a back low enough that I felt every glance.

Rowan's hand rested at my waist, an inch above where it was allowed.

Every board member we passed said, "Mrs. Ashcroft," and I said thank you.

Then I saw table eleven.

It was a round table near the dance floor with a card in a silver stand: Aldous & Son.

Preston sat there in a tux with his father, a heavy man with a mustache, who stood up too fast when he saw Rowan.

Lydia sat beside Preston in a pale pink gown.

She looked at me across the room and gave a small, brave wave.

"We don't have to sit near them," Rowan said in my ear.

"We're seated next to them."

"My assistant made the seating chart. I can have it changed."

"Leave it. I want to sit there."

He glanced down at me.

"Do you?"

"I want them to see my face the whole night," I said.

He was quiet, and then he pulled out my chair at table eleven himself.

Mr. Aldous shook Rowan's hand in both of his and said he was thrilled for the happy couple.

He did not look at his son.

A woman on Rowan's board leaned across the table.

"Mrs. Ashcroft, forgive me, but weren't you the one who was proposed to by that young man who proposed to another girl?"

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