My Husband Used My Funeral for His IPO

Cole stood at the center of the stage. The crystal chandelier hung right above him, casting bright light over his polished face and crisp tuxedo. In his hand, a crystal flute held pale champagne.

"To the future of Hoffman Group," Cole said into the microphone. His voice was smooth and deep. It filled the ballroom effortlessly. "And to the partners who make our vision possible."

Polite applause erupted across the room. Glasses clinked. Men laughed.

I stayed in the dark by the marble pillar. My pulse hammered in my ears. I couldn't stop looking at Barrett Munoz. He stood three tables away, holding his drink with his right hand. The gold serpent on his signet ring gleamed under the soft sconces.

My high collar felt like a noose. Three years of torture had not been bad luck. It had been an inside job.

Then, I saw Phoebe move.

While everyone clapped for Cole, she slipped through the crowd. Her gold silk dress drifted past the heavy velvet drapes near the east service corridor. She didn't look back. She moved fast, slipped behind the staff door, and vanished.

Two minutes passed. Cole was still talking about quarterly projections.

A sharp pop echoed from behind the walls.

It sounded like a fuse blowing. Then came the smell. It wasn't wood smoke. It was harsh, chemical, and thick. Plastic burning.

A thin gray ribbon drifted out from beneath the kitchen doors. Then another. Within seconds, thick black clouds rolled across the high ceiling.

The fire alarm screamed.

A piercing siren split the ballroom. Overhead sprinklers hissed, but only a few drops spat out before dying. The crowd froze for one heartbeat. Then the screaming started.

"Fire!" someone yelled.

Dozens of people shoved toward the main double doors. Crystal flutes shattered on the hardwood. Chairs tipped over. Women in designer gowns fought their way through the narrow exit.

I pressed my back against the marble pillar. I stayed low. In captivity, panic got you killed. You didn't run with the herd.

Through the smoke, the east door flew open.

Phoebe stumbled back into the ballroom. Her hair was messy, and soot marked her cheek. She didn't look for the fire exits. She looked straight at the stage.

She caught Cole's eye.

Then, she dropped to her knees right in the middle of the floor. She threw her arms over her rounded stomach.

"Cole!" she shrieked. Her voice cut through the blaring alarm. "Cole, the baby! Help me!"

Cole didn't pause. He didn't look for his security detail. He didn't check the room.

And he didn't look for me. Not for one second.

He jumped off the edge of the stage, knocked a waiter out of his way, and sprinted straight to Phoebe. He dropped to his knees, slid his arms beneath her back and legs, and scooped her up against his chest.

Phoebe buried her face in his neck, sobbing loudly. Cole's jaw was clenched tight. He shielded her body with his own and ran toward the private VIP exit on the far wall.

I stood by the pillar, coughing on the rising heat.

The crowd parted for him. For a split second, through the gray fog and waving arms, Cole’s profile was clear. His eyes were glued to the door ahead. He never turned his head. He never shouted my name. His wife was invisible. Roadkill.

I looked at his retreating back.

My damaged vocal cords couldn't push out a shout. But I didn't need to shout.

I shaped my lips in the heat.

*We're done.*

A thunderous boom shook the floorboards.

The service corridor behind the stage blew out. A shockwave tossed empty tables across the floor. The heavy velvet curtains caught fire instantly, turning into a roaring wall of red and orange. Heat slammed into my chest, stealing my air.

I didn't wait to be saved.

I dropped to my hands and knees. The air near the floor was cooler, thin enough to breathe. I pulled the high collar of my gray dress up over my nose and mouth.

The main doors were blocked by a pile of screaming guests. I wouldn't make it that way.

I turned toward the back wall. The blast had cracked a heavy wooden partition near the catering entrance. It had collapsed sideways, leaving a narrow triangular gap along the baseboards.

I crawled toward it.

Broken champagne glass dug into my palms. Hot embers drifted onto my bare arms, stinging my skin. The burns didn't faze me. My body was already a map of worse things.

I squeezed my shoulders through the gap beneath the partition. The wood scratched my back, tearing the drab gray fabric.

On the other side was a narrow maintenance hallway. Smoke hung thick, but the emergency light near the floor was green.

I kept low. I followed the line of the wall until my fingers hit a heavy steel push bar.

I slammed my weight against it.

The door shoved open, and the night air rushed in.

I stumbled down three concrete steps and hit the wet pavement of the back alley. The heavy fire door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the heat.

The alley was dark and silent. Far away on Wilshire Boulevard, sirens wailed.

I stood still.

My dress was torn and singed. My palms bled black soot and red blood onto the concrete. The surgical scar on my neck burned from the smoke.

I was completely alone.

I didn't shake. I didn't cry.

I looked at the brick wall across from me. I counted thirty seconds in my head.

*One. Two. Three...*

Cole Hoffman was gone. The broken wife was dead in that ballroom.

*...Twenty-nine. Thirty.*

I turned my back on the building. I stepped out of the alley and into the dark, and I began to walk.