The air in the Barron penthouse shimmered with forced gaiety, a crystal-and-champagne veneer over a simmering truth. It was Michael and Juliette’s third wedding anniversary party, a celebration Juliette had been strong-armed into hosting by her husband’s associates’ wives.

She moved through the opulent living space, a perfect hostess, a mask of calm composure hiding a rising tide of panic. Michael, the guest of honor, was conspicuously absent. An hour past the scheduled start, and still no sign of him.

Juliette clutched her phone, her fingers tracing the cold glass. She knew Michael despised their marriage, despised her. He’d never pick up her calls. She was always the last to know, the one overlooked, the laughingstock. Yet, she had to maintain the illusion.

Finally, the phone vibrated. Michael’s name blazed on the screen. She fled to a quiet bedroom, Michael’s best friend, Leon Opus, shadowing her. He leaned against the doorjamb, listening.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice tight.

“I won’t be home tonight until late. Don’t hold dinner for me and don’t wait up for me.” Michael’s voice was flat, devoid of warmth.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? What’s keeping you?”

“I’m working, and I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Alright, don’t work too hard. Good night.” Arguing was pointless. Michael disconnected the call with a curt, “Goodbye, Juliette.”

She tossed her phone onto the nightstand, staring at it, the weight of the party outside pressing down on her. How would she deal with this mess? Then, the doorbell chimed.