The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

Cristina straightened the silk tie on the table for the third time. It was a dark navy, Jackson's favorite, chosen specifically to match the suit he wore when they first met. The table was set for two. The candles had burned down an inch, the wax dripping onto the silver holders.

She looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty. He was an hour late.

The sound of the elevator pinging echoed through the empty penthouse. Cristina stood up, smoothing the front of her dress. It was a simple beige piece, something that made her blend into the walls, just the way the Floyd family preferred.

The heavy front door opened. A gust of cold November air rushed in, chilling her bare arms. Jackson walked in. He didn't look at her. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, the metal clatter sharp and loud in the silence.

"You're late," Cristina said softly. She walked toward him, reaching out to take his coat.

Jackson stepped back. His shoulder brushed past her hand, avoiding her touch as if she were contagious.

"I'm not hungry," he said. He walked past the dining room table without glancing at the dinner she had spent four hours preparing.

Cristina's hand remained in mid-air for a second before she dropped it to her side. She followed him into the living room. "It's our anniversary, Jackson. Five years."

He stopped. He turned to look at her, and his eyes were empty. There was no anger, no annoyance. Just a flat, terrifying indifference.

"I know what day it is, Tina."

His phone buzzed against the mahogany surface of the side table. The screen lit up. The name Davida flashed in bright white letters.

Jackson reached for the phone immediately. The hardness in his face melted away. His thumb hovered over the screen, his expression softening into something pained and tender. He didn't answer it, but the hesitation spoke louder than any conversation.

He set the phone back down, face down this time. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick Manila envelope. He slid it across the coffee table toward her.

"We need to talk," he said.

Cristina looked at the envelope. She didn't need to open it to know what it was. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs worked, but no oxygen reached her blood.

"Is this it?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Davida is getting worse," Jackson said. He didn't sit down. He stood over her, imposing and distant. "The doctors say stress is a major factor. She needs stability. She needs... she needs to know I'm there for her. Officially."

"So I'm the stress," Cristina said.

"You're the obstacle," Jackson corrected. "It's been five years, Tina. We had an agreement. You knew this wasn't a love match. You were a placeholder until she recovered."

Cristina looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She clasped them together to stop the tremors. "I ran your house. I supported your business. I gave you everything."

"You lived in a penthouse and spent my money," Jackson said, his voice cold and transactional. "Don't pretend you were a martyr, Tina. You were an investment. A proprietary asset. But let's be honest-your designs, your input, they all belong to Floyd Enterprises. Without my platform, without the Floyd name backing you, you are nothing. You leave with what you came with. Which is nothing."

He tapped the envelope.

"Sign it. The terms are standard."

Cristina felt a ringing in her ears. It was a high-pitched whine that drowned out the hum of the refrigerator in the distance. She looked at him, really looked at him, searching for the man she had saved five years ago. He wasn't there.

"She's my stepsister, Jackson. She's made my life hell since I was seven."

"She is sick," Jackson snapped. "And she loves me. And I owe her my life. Something you wouldn't understand."

He checked his watch. "I have to go. She's waiting for me at the hospital."

Cristina picked up the pen lying next to the papers. The plastic felt cold and slippery in her sweating palm. She realized then that begging would only make him despise her more. He didn't see a wife. He saw an employee he was firing.

She opened the folder. Divorce Decree. The words were bold and black.

She signed her name. Cristina Powell.

The ink was still wet when Jackson reached down and took the folder. He didn't check the signature. He just wanted it done.

"You have until tomorrow morning to vacate," he said. He turned his back on her and walked to the door.

"Happy anniversary, Jackson," she whispered.

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged automatically.

Cristina stood alone in the center of the room. She looked at the view of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city lights blurred as tears finally welled up, burning her eyes.

She reached for her left hand. She twisted the diamond band on her ring finger. It slid off easily. She placed it on the coffee table, right where the divorce papers had been.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. A text message from Davida.

Finally. Don't forget to leave the keys.

Cristina stared at the screen until the backlight turned off. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The sadness in her chest began to harden into something sharp. She turned away from the window and walked toward the bedroom.