My Husband Used Me to Protect His Sister

The camera flashes made my head hurt.

I stood at the podium on the rooftop of the Mercer Hotel, looking out at two hundred people who'd paid to be here. The Manhattan skyline glittered behind me. Someone from *Publisher's Weekly* asked about my creative process. Someone from *The Cut* asked about balancing art and commerce. Someone from a podcast I'd never heard of asked about my husband.

"Dean has been incredibly supportive," I said. The words came out smooth. I'd practiced them. "He believes in the work."

The journalist smiled and scribbled something down. I smiled back. Neither of us mentioned the empty seat in the front row.

I'd saved it for him. Put a little reserved card on it this morning. The card was still there, propped against the chair back, his name in calligraphy I'd paid too much for.

My publicist gave me a subtle nod from the side of the room. Wrap it up. I thanked everyone for coming. I held up my new graphic novel—*Fractured Light*, two years of work, already optioned by Netflix—and the crowd applauded. The sound felt far away.

Backstage, I checked my phone.

Nothing.

I'd texted Dean three times. Called twice. The last call went straight to voicemail. I told myself his phone died. I told myself he got stuck in traffic. I told myself a lot of things I didn't believe.

Noelle found me by the catering table, staring at my phone.

"He's not coming," she said quietly.

I put the phone in my purse. "He's busy."

"Chloe."

"It's fine." I picked up a glass of champagne I wasn't going to drink. "The event went well. That's what matters."

Noelle looked at me the way she'd been looking at me for two years now. Like she was watching me drown in slow motion. Like she wanted to say something but knew I wasn't ready to hear it.

"I'm going to find him," I said.

She didn't try to stop me.

I asked one of the hotel staff if they'd seen Dean. The kid looked uncomfortable. He was maybe twenty-two, wearing a vest that didn't fit right.

"Mr. Cunningham is in the Azure Lounge," he said. "One floor down. Private event."

My chest went tight. "What kind of private event?"

The kid looked at his shoes. "I'm not supposed to say, ma'am."

I walked past him toward the elevator.

The Azure Lounge had frosted glass doors and soft blue lighting. I could see shapes moving inside. I pushed the door open.

Dean was sitting on the arm of a velvet sofa. Leanna was draped across the cushions, one hand pressed to her forehead like a Victorian heroine. She was wearing a white slip dress that probably cost more than my first car.

"I can't breathe," she was saying. "Dean, I can't—"

"You're okay." Dean's voice was soft. Gentle. The voice he used to use with me. "Just breathe. I'm right here."

I stood in the doorway. Neither of them looked up.

"Dean," I said.

He turned. For a second—just a second—he looked guilty. Then he looked annoyed.

"Chloe. I was just—Leanna had an anxiety attack. I couldn't leave her alone."

Leanna looked up at me through her fingers. Her mascara was smudged. She was very good at this.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to ruin your night."

I opened my mouth to respond. That's when the drunk guy stumbled in.

He was maybe forty, red-faced, tie askew. He had a champagne bottle in one hand. He looked around the room like he'd just discovered Narnia.

"Private party!" He grinned. "Nice."

"Sir, this room is reserved." Dean stood up. His CEO voice. "You need to leave."

The drunk guy laughed. He raised the bottle. "Relax, man. I'm just—"

He swung the bottle. I don't think he meant to throw it. I think he was just drunk and clumsy and the bottle slipped.

It flew toward Leanna.

Everything slowed down.

Dean grabbed my arm. He yanked me forward, hard, and shoved me between Leanna and the bottle.

I felt the glass hit my temple. Heard it shatter. Felt something hot run down the side of my face.

Then I was on the floor.

The carpet was very soft. I noticed that. Expensive carpet. The kind that doesn't show stains.

I heard Dean's voice above me. "Leanna? Are you okay? Did it hit you?"

I tried to sit up. The room tilted. I put my hand to my head and it came away red.

"Chloe." Dean finally looked down at me. His face went white. "Oh my God. Chloe."

"I'm fine," I said.

I wasn't fine.

Someone called 911. Someone wrapped a napkin around my head. Leanna was crying—loud, theatrical sobs that made everyone look at her instead of me.

Dean knelt beside me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—I was just trying to—"

"Protect her," I finished.

He didn't deny it.

The ambulance came. The paramedics put me on a stretcher. Dean rode with me, holding my hand, his face gray with guilt.

I closed my eyes and felt the baby—eleven weeks, still too small to show—and thought about the empty seat at my book launch.

I thought about it the whole way to the hospital.