The Wife He Called No One

"Don't embarrass the family," Adrian instructed, his tone clipped as we stood under the grand awning of The Beverly Hills Hotel. "Sit in the corner."

Three days after I walked out of Cedars-Sinai Hospital, the Ashford family hosted their annual charity gala. The valet took the keys to the Bentley. I stepped onto the red carpet.

"I asked to stay home," I said, pulling my thin beige cashmere scarf tighter around my shoulders. "I am still recovering."

"The press expects my wife to be present," Adrian replied, adjusting his platinum cuffs. "Just stay out of sight. You look pale."

I wore the exact same faded navy silk gown I had purchased off the rack three years ago. I did not argue. I walked into the glittering ballroom and found the smallest, darkest table located right next to the kitchen service doors.

I sat down. I watched the room fill with billionaires, actors, and socialites.

An hour into the banquet, the string quartet stopped playing. Adrian took the center stage microphone. The crystal chandeliers illuminated his sharp, handsome features.

"Tonight marks a new chapter for the Ashford Foundation," Adrian announced, his voice projecting easily across the massive room. He extended a hand toward the VIP tables in the front row. "I want to introduce someone very special to all of you. This is Sophia Vance, my—future."

Polite applause erupted from the crowd.

Sophia stood up. Her diamond necklace caught the light, sparkling brightly as she offered the room a flawless, practiced smile.

I stared at my empty water glass. My expression remained entirely blank.

Twenty minutes later, the waiters began clearing the first course. Sophia glided through the maze of tables, a heavy crystal goblet of red wine in her right hand.

She stopped directly beside my small table.

"Hello, Eloise," Sophia said, swirling the dark liquid.

"What do you want, Sophia?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Just saying hello. You look absolutely terrible in that cheap dress."

"Leave me alone."

Sophia tilted her wrist.

The dark red wine splashed directly across my chest, soaking into the thin navy silk. The cold liquid seeped through the fabric, chilling my skin instantly.

"Oh, my," Sophia murmured, her voice overly sweet and loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear. "I am so clumsy today. I didn't even see you sitting in the dark."

Adrian materialized beside her almost instantly. He assessed the massive red stain spreading across my chest.

"What happened?" Adrian asked.

"She bumped the table," Sophia said, resting her free hand on Adrian's arm. "The wine just spilled everywhere."

Adrian turned his cold gaze to me. "Go change. Don't make Sophia uncomfortable."

"She poured it on me," I said, remaining in my seat.

"Stop lying," Adrian commanded, his jaw tightening. "Go upstairs to the hotel suite and fix yourself. You are making a mess."

He didn't hand me a napkin. He didn't ask if the wine stained my skin. He only cared about the woman standing next to him.

"No," I said.

Adrian's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I am not changing." I pushed my chair back and stood up. The wet fabric clung heavily to my ribs.

"Eloise, do not cause a scene," he warned, stepping directly into my path.

"I am not causing a scene," I replied. "I am leaving."

I sidestepped him. But I did not walk toward the exit. I walked away from the dark corner, moving straight toward the brightly lit stage.

The auctioneer tapped the microphone at the podium.

"And now, we must acknowledge our largest contribution of the evening," the auctioneer said, smiling at the crowd. "An anonymous benefactor has gifted forty-five million dollars to the foundation."

I climbed the three carpeted steps.

The auctioneer blinked in surprise as I reached out and took the heavy silver microphone right out of his hand.

I turned to the guest of honor, the French charity chairman sitting in the front row.

"Monsieur Laurent," I spoke into the mic, my voice steady, the French syllables rolling off my tongue effortlessly. "Votre dévouement à cette cause est une véritable inspiration. C'est un honneur de soutenir votre vision."

The chairman beamed, standing up to bow his head in deep respect.

I shifted my gaze to the center of the room. Adrian stood completely frozen near the service doors.

"Tonight's anonymous donation of forty-five million dollars," I switched back to English, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I would like to release the name now. The donor is me. Consider it my farewell gift to Mr. Ashford."

Loud murmurs broke out across the ballroom. Cameras flashed.

"The name," I continued, staring directly into Adrian's eyes, "is V. Wendover."

From the shadows of the second-floor VIP box, Caleb leaned against the velvet railing. He stared down at the woman standing on the stage.

The champagne in his crystal flute sloshed over the rim, wetting his thumb. He didn't wipe it away.

"Sir, the auction is still proceeding," his assistant, Julian, said from the doorway.

"I don't care about the auction," Caleb whispered, his voice barely audible over the swelling whispers of the crowd below.

"Do you know that woman?" Julian asked, stepping closer to the glass.

"She is back," Caleb said, his grip tightening on the fragile crystal stem.

"Who is back?"

"Finally." Caleb set the glass on the marble ledge, his dark eyes tracking her every move.

Down on the main floor, Adrian gripped the back of an empty chair. The leather creaked loudly under his fingers.

French. She spoke fluent French.

He stared at the woman holding the microphone. The red wine stain on her chest looked like a fresh battle wound, yet she stood taller and more commanding than anyone in the room. He had lived in the same house with her for over a thousand days. He had never heard her speak a single word of another language.

Who is V. Wendover?

Eloise handed the microphone back to the auctioneer. She descended the stairs.

She walked straight down the center aisle. She passed table four. She passed the VIP section. She passed Adrian.

She did not look at him. She did not pause.

Her beige cashmere scarf hung over her left arm, her only accessory for the evening. The soft fabric brushed lightly against Adrian's sleeve as she walked by.

Adrian turned his head, watching her retreating figure push through the grand double doors. The heavy wood shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the lobby.

He stared at the closed doors, a sudden, absurd thought piercing through the confusion in his chest.

I have been married to this woman for three years. Why don't I know what her face actually looks like?