69My husband made me bring our triplets to his best friend's wedding so everyone could see our happy family.

The Commonwealth Club on North Monroe Street was the beating, conservative heart of Richmond's old money. Built in 1891, its red-brick facade and grand arched windows exuded the kind of quiet, dynastic authority that Colin Miller worshipped.

On Thursday evening at six-fifty, Colin pulled our Audi sedan into the circular drive. The valet opened my door.

"You look exceptional, Clara," Colin said as we stepped onto the red-carpeted stairs. His tone was admiring, but his eyes were checking the perimeter, scanning the arriving guests to see who had seen us arrive together.

I had spent two hours getting ready. I wasn't wearing consignment silk tonight. I was wearing an emerald-cut sapphire velvet gown that had belonged to my mother—classic, perfectly tailored, hitting just below the collarbone, with long sleeves and a line that made me look tall, composed, and untouchable. My hair was swept up into an elegant French twist. Around my neck hung my grandmother’s simple pearl pendant.

I looked like a woman who had never picked up a dirty sippy cup in her life.

"Thank you, Colin," I said smoothly, resting my hand in the crook of his elbow. His suit was immaculate, his gold chronograph gleaming against his crisp French cuff.

"Remember," he murmured as we passed through the mahogany entrance doors into the ballroom, "Henderson cares about stability. When he talks to you, mention how much the kids love their routine. Mention that we’re looking at St. Christopher's for Leo and Max for kindergarten. Show him we have roots."

"Of course," I said. "Stability is everything."

The ballroom was filled with the low, muted roar of two hundred lawyers, judges, and corporate executives sipping gin and tonics under crystal chandeliers.

Within ten minutes, Colin was in his element. He introduced me to senior partners with smooth, practiced ease, his left hand resting lightly on my waist—the exact same gesture he had used in the vineyard conservatory forty-eight hours earlier. Every time his fingers touched my back, my skin prickled with a cold, electric disgust, but my smile never slipped.

"Harrison," Colin said, his voice dropping into that respectful, deferential tone he reserved for the gods of his profession.

Harrison Henderson turned. He was seventy-one, with a mane of white hair, bushy eyebrows, and the sharp, hawkish eyes of a man who had won nine-figure jury verdicts before Colin was born.

"Colin," Henderson boomed, extending a massive, dry hand. "And Clara! My dear, you look radiant. How on earth do you manage three at once? My daughter has twins in Charlotte, and she looks like she's been through a category five hurricane every time I see her."

"A strict schedule and a husband who knows how to prioritize," I said, looking up at Colin with a wide, radiant smile. "Colin always makes sure everything at home is taken care of before he turns his attention to his work."

Henderson chuckled, patting Colin’s shoulder. "That's what we like to hear. A steady man at home is a steady man in the courtroom. We’ve seen too many brilliant young associates crash and burn because their personal lives were a shambles."

"I take my commitments very seriously, Harrison," Colin said, his chest puffing out slightly beneath his suit. "My family is the foundation of everything I do."

"Good. Good," Henderson said, his gaze drifting toward the entrance. "Ah, look who made the trip down from D.C. Arthur Vance’s girl."

Colin’s shoulder went rigid.

I didn't turn immediately. I waited two beats, then followed Henderson's gaze toward the arched doorway.

Elena Vance had just walked in.

She was wearing a black silk column gown with a high neck, entirely appropriate for the conservative Commonwealth Club, but cut so sharply against her shoulders that every man within ten feet had paused mid-sentence. Her hair was down tonight, falling in glossy waves over one shoulder.

Beside her was an older man with silver hair and an iron-gray suit—Arthur Vance, the exiled founder.

Colin’s fingers tightened on my waist, the grip bordering on painful.

"Arthur," Henderson muttered, his bushy brows drawing together. "I didn't think he had the nerve to set foot in this club after the 2016 split."

"What is Elena doing here?" Colin said, his voice dropping an octave, the polished veneer cracking just enough for me to hear the cold, sharp edge of panic underneath.

"She’s representing the Mid-Atlantic Clean Energy Trust," Henderson said dryly. "They’re putting their litigation retainer up for bid next month. A four-million-dollar account, Colin. She requested an audience with the executive committee tonight."

I felt the tremor in Colin’s arm.

*He didn't know,* I realized with sudden, brilliant clarity. *He thought she was his little secret. He thought he was playing her. He had no idea she was walking right through the front door of his firm with a four-million-dollar knife in her hand.*

Elena’s eyes swept the room. When they landed on Colin, her expression didn't change at all—a cool, assessing nod of professional acknowledgment. Then her gaze dropped to me.

She looked at my sapphire velvet dress. She looked at my hand resting on Colin’s arm. She looked at the diamond wedding band on my left ring finger.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her crimson lips.

"Excuse me, Harrison," Colin choked out, his smile now looking like a mask pinned onto a corpse. "I need to... I see a client near the bar. Clara, stay here with Harrison."

"Don't be long, darling," I said sweetly.

Colin turned on his heel and moved through the crowd with urgent, hurried steps, cutting a path directly toward the library corridor that led off the main ballroom.