Wedding Day Divorce

A week after I destroyed Rayden's car, he announced we'd be attending the charity gala at Skyline Country Club.

"It's important for appearances," he said, adjusting his cufflinks without looking at me. "James Mitchell will be there, along with half our investor base. I need you to look... put together."

I almost refused. The thought of parading around while everyone whispered about those beach photos made my stomach clench. But then I realized—I wouldn't hide in shame for his mistakes. If Rayden wanted to play the devoted husband in public, he could do it while looking at the wife he'd betrayed.

I spent the afternoon at the salon, letting them work magic on my hair until it fell in glossy waves down my back. My makeup artist enhanced my eyes with smoky shadow, making them look larger, more luminous. When I slipped into the emerald silk gown—the one Rayden once said made me look like a queen—I barely recognized myself. The woman in the mirror looked untouchable, regal.

Rayden's eyes widened when I emerged from our bedroom. For a moment, something flickered across his face—memory, perhaps, of who we used to be.

"You look beautiful," he said softly.

I smoothed the silk over my hips. "Don't mistake this for forgiveness."

The drive to Skyline passed in tense silence. The country club's vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers sparkled under warm lighting, casting everything in an elegant glow. I circulated through the crowd with practiced grace, accepting air kisses and compliments while everyone pretended they hadn't seen the tabloid photos.

"Hannah, darling, you look absolutely radiant," gushed Mrs. Wellington, though her eyes searched my face for cracks in the facade.

"Thank you, Margaret. How's Edward's golf game?"

The conversations flowed like clockwork—polite, surface-level, everyone dancing around the elephant in the room. I smiled until my cheeks ached, sipped champagne I couldn't taste, and watched Rayden work the room with his usual charm.

Then she arrived.

I spotted the flash of red before I saw her face. Avani Gray stood in the club's entrance, scanning the crowd like a predator choosing prey. Her dress was completely wrong for the venue—too short, too tight, too obvious. The scarlet silk clung to every curve, the neckline plunging deeper than appropriate for a charity gala. She looked like she was heading to a nightclub, not the most exclusive country club in the city.

She walked directly toward Rayden, who was deep in conversation with James Mitchell near the bar. I watched from across the room as she slid her arm possessively around his waist, her manicured fingers splaying across his jacket.

Mitchell's wife, Eleanor, raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe we've met, dear."

Avani's voice carried clearly across the marble floors: "I'm Mrs. Cunningham, of course. Rayden's wife."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I saw heads turn, caught the sharp intake of breath from nearby guests. Eleanor's champagne glass froze halfway to her lips. James Mitchell's expression darkened, his business smile evaporating.

Rayden stammered, his face flushing red. "No, no—Avani is my assistant. She meant—"

"I meant exactly what I said," Avani interrupted, her chin lifting defiantly.

The damage was done. I could feel the weight of stares, the whispered conversations starting like wildfire. My carefully constructed composure cracked, but instead of crumbling, something steel-cold settled in my chest.

I set my champagne glass on a nearby table and walked directly toward them.

The confrontation happened in the club's marble foyer, where the noise from the main ballroom became a distant hum. Other guests could see us through the glass doors, but couldn't hear our words—a perfect stage for whatever was about to unfold.

"You're wearing my name like stolen jewelry," I said, my voice carrying the icy composure I'd perfected over years of charity boards and business dinners. "Does it make you feel important, or just desperate?"

Avani stepped closer, her red lips curving into a sneer. "I'm wearing his ring too, sweetheart. Look." She thrust her right hand toward me, where a diamond solitaire caught the light. Not an engagement ring, but positioned and sized to pass as one in dim lighting. "He gave this to me last week. When was the last time he gave you anything?"

I looked at Rayden, waiting for him to say something, anything. To defend me, to correct her, to show even a shred of the man I'd married. But he stood there like a statue, paralyzed by his own cowardice.

I turned back to Avani, noting how her confidence wavered under my steady gaze. "Keep the ring. Keep the name if you want it so badly. But know that when he's done with you—and he will be—you'll have nothing but a reputation as the woman who broke up a marriage for a man who isn't capable of loving anyone but himself."

Avani's face flushed, her composure finally cracking. "You pathetic—"

"Ladies." Rayden finally found his voice, though it sounded strangled. "This isn't the place—"

I fixed him with a look that could have frozen hellfire. "You're right. This isn't the place. But then again, neither is a beach in the Bahamas, and that didn't stop you."