Chapter 1: The Perfect Wife
“Elena, we have a problem.”
Of course they did.
Elena Cross Blackwood looked at the terrified young man standing in front of her and resisted the urge to check the time.
The Blackwood Foundation’s annual gala had officially started twelve minutes ago.
Which meant they were doing remarkably well.
“What kind of problem?”
“The Harringtons are here.”
She waited.
The event coordinator swallowed.
“They’re not on the seating plan.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“They brought six people.”
Elena closed her eyes for half a second.
There it was.
“What kind of six people?”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Children? Business partners? Mistresses? Random strangers they found outside?”
“Business partners. I think.”
“You think?”
“They’re wearing tuxedos.”
“In this room, that narrows it down to roughly three hundred people.”
His expression suggested he was approximately two minutes away from resigning and joining a monastery.
Elena took pity on him.
“Table nineteen has four empty seats. Move the Carters there, put the Harringtons at fourteen and add two chairs.”
He nodded rapidly.
“Check with the kitchen before you move anyone. Two of the original guests at fourteen are vegetarian, one has a shellfish allergy, and Mrs. Levine will complain if she’s seated anywhere near the speakers.”
He stared at her.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because unlike the Harringtons, they RSVP’d.”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“Right.”
“And Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“Breathe.”
He inhaled.
“Preferably while walking.”
He disappeared toward the ballroom.
Elena took a sip of champagne that had been in her hand for at least twenty minutes.
Warm.
Perfect.
She looked at the glass with mild disgust and considered throwing it into one of the flower arrangements.
Instead, she smiled as a donor passed her.
“Mrs. Blackwood. Beautiful evening.”
“Thank you so much for coming.”
The smile vanished the second he turned away.
Across the ballroom, four hundred guests moved beneath enormous crystal chandeliers.
Investors. Politicians. Executives. Judges. Old family friends. New family enemies pretending to be old family friends.
Men in black tie discussed markets and elections over twelve-year-old whisky. Women in couture drifted between tables wearing enough diamonds to resolve the debt of a developing nation.
A string quartet played near the terrace doors.
Waiters moved through the room with military precision.
Champagne appeared before anyone had to ask.
Everything looked effortless.
That was the point.
Nobody was supposed to see the three weeks of emails, calls, seating charts, menu changes, security briefings, florist meetings, donor tantrums, allergy spreadsheets and last-minute requests from people who believed wealth exempted them from deadlines.
Nobody needed to know that a cabinet minister had changed his attendance twice that afternoon or that one of the foundation’s largest donors had demanded a vegan menu and then ordered steak.
They were supposed to walk into the room and think one thing.
Beautiful.
Elena had become very good at making difficult things look effortless.
It was, according to Margaret Blackwood, one of her greatest strengths.
Elena wasn’t entirely sure it had been meant as a compliment.
“Elena.”
Speaking of Margaret.
She recognized the voice before she turned.
Margaret Blackwood approached in dark blue silk, diamonds at her throat, silver-blonde hair swept into an immaculate twist.
At sixty-two, Adrian’s mother looked exactly as she always did: expensive, composed and vaguely disappointed by the world.
Mostly because the world had consistently failed to meet her standards.
“Margaret.”
“Senator Collins is seated beside Richard Hale.”
“Yes.”
“They hate each other.”
“I know.”
Margaret paused.
It was a very particular Blackwood pause.
The kind that implied somebody, somewhere, had made a mistake and Margaret was generously allowing them several seconds to realize it.
“Then why are they seated together?”
“Because Senator Collins specifically asked to sit beside him.”
Another pause.
“Why?”
“I decided I didn’t want to know.”
Margaret’s mouth twitched.
From Margaret Blackwood, that practically qualified as hysterical laughter.
Elena allowed herself the smallest smile.
“They’ve been talking for twenty minutes,” Margaret said.
“Arguing.”
“Same thing in politics.”
Margaret glanced around the room.
“The flowers are lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Much better than last year.”
“I changed the florist.”
“I told Adrian you should.”
No, you didn’t.
Elena smiled pleasantly.
“I remember.”
Margaret gave a satisfied nod, completely untroubled by history.
Her gaze moved over Elena.
The dress.
The hair.
The earrings.
Elena knew that look too.
Inspection.
“You chose the emerald.”
“I did.”
“It suits you.”
“Thank you.”
“Though perhaps the black would have been slightly more appropriate.”
There it was.
Elena smiled.
“Fortunately, the foundation survived.”
Another twitch of Margaret’s mouth.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Mia.”
“Not nearly enough, actually.”
Something shifted in Margaret’s expression.
Small enough that anyone else might have missed it.
Elena didn’t.
Margaret had never particularly approved of Mia Cross.
Too loud.
Too unmarried.
Too unimpressed by the Blackwood name.
Possibly Elena’s favorite three things about her younger sister.
Before Margaret could comment, a man approached and kissed the air beside her cheek.
“Margaret.”
“Charles.”
They immediately launched into a conversation about somebody Elena had never met and a scandal she had no interest in understanding.
Elena escaped.
She finally abandoned the warm champagne on a passing tray.
“Having fun?”
This time, she smiled for real.
Adrian stood beside her in a perfectly cut black tuxedo, bow tie slightly loosened, one hand tucked casually into his pocket.
At thirty-six, Adrian Blackwood had mastered the irritating ability to look relaxed in situations that required twenty other people to work themselves half to death.
Including, apparently, his wife.
He was also unfairly handsome.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
That tiny line beside his mouth that appeared when he was trying not to laugh.
Ten years ago, Elena had considered that line devastating.
Apparently some things didn’t change.
“Best night of my life,” she said.
“That bad?”
“Harrington brought six extra guests.”
Adrian winced.
“Jesus.”
“I’m considering having him killed.”
“After the auction.”
“Obviously. I’m not a monster.”
He grinned.
“What did you do?”
“Moved the Carters, bullied the kitchen and sacrificed Daniel’s remaining will to live.”
“Efficient.”
“I thought so.”
Adrian slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.
Brief.
Familiar.
Easy.
Ten years of marriage condensed into a gesture neither of them had to think about anymore.
“What would I do without you?”
Elena looked up at him.
“Apparently seat Senator Collins next to Richard Hale and start an international incident.”
He laughed.
There.
That was better.
For a moment, standing beneath the chandeliers with Adrian smiling at her, Elena felt the familiar warmth settle inside her.
This was their life.
Chaotic, perhaps.
Demanding.
Absurd more often than either of them admitted.
But theirs.
She knew his coffee order.
He knew she hated lilies.
She knew exactly what expression meant he wanted rescuing from a conversation.
He knew when to order Thai food without asking because she’d had a terrible day.
There had been years built out of those small things.
A thousand private habits nobody else saw.
Adrian’s thumb brushed absentmindedly against her waist.
“You look beautiful, by the way.”
“Your mother thinks I should have worn black.”
“My mother thinks joy is a gateway drug.”
Elena laughed.
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
“She knows.”
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Just a glance.
But Elena felt his hand leave her waist before he even spoke.
“I need to take this.”
“Go.”
“You sure?”
“Adrian, there are four hundred people in this room. I think I can survive seven minutes without you.”
“That’s my girl.”
He kissed her forehead this time.
Then he was gone.
Already answering the call as he disappeared into the crowd.
Elena watched him for a second longer than necessary.
That’s my girl.
She wasn’t sure why the words irritated her.
They never had before.
Maybe it was Margaret.
Maybe it was the warm champagne.
Maybe it was because she had spent three weeks making his family’s event perfect and somehow the phrase made her feel like a particularly competent Labrador.
“Elena!”
She closed her eyes.
Another crisis.
Naturally.
---
By ten thirty, the auction had exceeded its target by nineteen percent.
Nobody had died.
No politicians had punched each other.
The Harringtons appeared delighted with their improvised table.
Senator Collins and Richard Hale had spent forty minutes arguing about tax policy and then, inexplicably, left together for drinks.
Elena considered the evening a success.
The ballroom had softened around the edges.
Dinner plates had disappeared.
Jackets had come off.
The string quartet had been replaced by a jazz trio and people who had spent the first half of the evening discussing philanthropy were now drinking enough champagne to forget why they were there.
Elena stood near the terrace doors while one of the foundation trustees explained, in great detail, why modern architecture was a personal insult.
She smiled.
Nodded.
Made the appropriate noises.
Her feet were dying.
Not metaphorically.
Actually dying.
She was reasonably certain two toes had lost circulation somewhere around the dessert course.
Her phone vibrated inside her clutch.
“Excuse me.”
She stepped away and checked it.
Three messages.
One from Daniel.
Crisis avoided. Harrington wants to donate another 20k. I hate everything.
Elena smiled.
One from Margaret.
Please remind catering that Mr. Pembroke doesn’t eat dairy.
Mr. Pembroke had just eaten half a crème brûlée.
Elena decided to ignore that one.
The third was from Adrian.
Where are you?
She typed back.
Ballroom. Where are you?
Delivered.
No answer.
Elena glanced around.
His chair at their table was empty.
Actually—
She frowned.
How long had it been empty? Twenty minutes? Thirty? She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him.
Probably before the auction. No. He had been near the stage afterward. Hadn’t he?
She scanned the room again.
Nothing.
“Elena.”
One of the senior servers appeared beside her holding a slim black folder.
“Mr. Blackwood asked for the final auction figures.”
“Adrian?”
“Mr. Blackwood senior.”
Of course.
“Thanks. I’ll take them.”
She accepted the folder.
Richard Blackwood rarely asked for anything directly if he could summon a subordinate to retrieve it for him.
The Blackwood patriarch had apparently been born sixty years old and mildly irritated.
Elena headed toward the private corridor behind the ballroom.
The noise faded almost immediately.
One door shut behind her and the gala became a distant murmur.
She exhaled.
God.
Silence.
Actual silence.
She slowed.
Her feet hurt.
Her cheeks hurt from smiling.
And she was fairly certain the pins holding her hair in place had begun drilling directly into her skull.
Tomorrow, she promised herself.
Tomorrow she would do absolutely nothing.
No foundation.
No Margaret.
No emails before breakfast.
Maybe she would sleep until ten.
Maybe eleven.
She almost laughed at the thought.
Maybe she would finally call Mia.
The thought stopped her.
They had been saying they should get lunch for months. Mia had suggested dates. Elena had postponed. Then suggested another week. Then cancelled because Adrian had needed her at some dinner. At some point, Mia had stopped suggesting anything.
Elena frowned.
She had noticed, of course. She had just filed it away with everything else that could be dealt with later.
After the gala.
After Adrian’s next trip.
After Margaret’s birthday.
After things calmed down.
There was always an after.
She slowed as she reached the private corridor behind the ballroom.
Tomorrow, she decided.
Tomorrow she would call Mia.
Tomorrow she would sleep late, ignore the foundation, order something unhealthy for lunch and spend an entire day doing absolutely nothing useful for anybody.
The idea made her smile.
Then she reached Richard Blackwood’s study.
And heard Adrian’s voice on the other side of the door.
