Chapter 6

Natalie Smith POV

The night of the charity gala. The whole city dressed up.

I wore a deep emerald velvet gown, fitted and tailored, and took Ethan's arm as we walked the red carpet together.

The two of us drew cameras immediately, every photographer on the carpet turning our way.

"Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch, over here!"

Ethan moved to shield my eyes from the worst of the flashing lights and murmured close to my ear. "Nervous?"

I shook my head. My face was calm.

Then, near the far end of the carpet, a commotion broke out.

A black Maybach glided to a stop. The door opened.

Vivian stepped out in a white haute couture gown covered in hand-sewn stars, looking as if she had been placed there deliberately to make everyone look.

But then she seemed to freeze, overwhelmed by the cameras, the crowd, the noise. She stood rooted to the spot like a startled deer, her eyes going red almost instantly.

The press swarmed her like sharks that had caught a scent.

"Miss Lynn, in what capacity are you attending tonight?"

"We've heard Mr. Finch gifted you a multi-million dollar villa. Can you describe your relationship with him?"

Vivian backed away from them, pale and trembling, tears rolling freely down her face. "Please stop. Please, stop taking pictures of me."

Out on the carpet, Ethan heard the commotion and spun around.

The instant he saw Vivian, surrounded, shaking, barely holding herself together, something shifted in his face completely.

And then, almost before I could register what was happening, he pulled his arm from mine.

I stumbled. The heel of my shoe caught wrong, and I nearly went down right there in front of everyone.

Ethan didn't look at me. He was already moving, pushing through the crowd toward her.

"Back off!"

He shoved the nearest reporter aside and wrapped himself around Vivian, pulling her tight against him, shielding her completely.

"Ethan..." She fisted her hands in his jacket and sobbed against his chest. "I was so scared..."

"You're okay. I'm right here." He stripped off his dinner jacket and draped it over her shoulders, then swept the assembled press with a look cold enough to cut glass. "Anyone who publishes a single photograph tonight should expect a call from my legal team by morning."

Silence fell over the red carpet.

Everyone stared.

The heir to one of New York's most powerful dynasties had just left his wife stranded alone in the middle of the red carpet for another woman.

Every eye in the crowd turned to look at me. Sympathy. Mockery. Pure rubbernecking curiosity.

I stood where he had left me. The night wind moved across my bare shoulders and cut straight through me.

I looked at him, fifteen feet away, wrapped around Vivian as if nothing else in the world existed, and I felt something close to wonder at how absurd this all was.

This was what he'd promised me. That all of New York would see how proud he was to call me his wife.

I pulled my shoulders back.

I did not cry. I did not flinch. I did not let my expression change by a single degree.

I ignored every staring face around me, squared my heels, and walked the rest of that carpet, one step at a time, steady and unhurried, with my head held high.

Inside the venue, the ceremony began.

"And the Outstanding Young Architect of the Year is...Ms. Natalie Smith!"

The spotlight found me.

I stood, and before I moved, I let my eyes travel to the front row VIP seats.

Empty.

Ethan hadn't come inside. He was still out there, somewhere, talking Vivian down from the edge.

I walked to the stage at my own pace and accepted the award.

"Thank you to the judges for this recognition." I stood at the microphone, my voice clear and unhurried.

"This award closes the chapter on the past three years of my work. It also marks the beginning of something new. Next month, I'll be moving to Zurich to lead a major international development project. Goodbye, New York."

The applause was immediate and full.

And Ethan, who had just finished calming Vivian down and was walking toward the entrance of the hall, heard those last two words.

He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes found me on stage. He looked like he'd been struck.