We navigated the room, David tense beside me, his hand gripping my elbow as if to anchor himself. He nodded to colleagues, laughed at jokes he didn’t find funny, and played the part of the rising star. I smiled until my face ached, nodding politely as women looked past me, their eyes scanning the room for someone more important.

Then, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

“Well, well, David. Is this the little wife?”

Vanessa Sterling, the wife of the CEO, descended upon us. She was a woman who wore her wealth like a weapon. Her dress was a metallic gold confection that looked like it cost more than our entire mortgage, structured with stiff peaks and valleys that defied gravity. Her neck was weighed down by a sapphire necklace the size of a pigeon’s egg. She didn’t smile; she smirked, a predator spotting a wounded gazelle.