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"Is this Sotheby's? The Park Avenue brownstone on the Upper East Side — I'll sell it to your buyer. The wire has to hit my account within three days."
The broker on the other end could barely contain himself.
That brownstone was where Richard and I had lived for forty years. It had come to me from the Harrington Family Trust — my own inheritance, held in my name since before the wedding.
No matter how bad things had gotten, I'd never once considered selling it.
But now —
A few yards ahead of me, the three of them were heading back inside Carnegie Hall.
From the outside, they looked like a beautiful family — a grown son still accompanying his parents to the symphony. Anyone would have praised the boy's devotion.
Except one of them was my husband. One of them was my child. And the woman they were guarding between them, shielding like a princess, wasn't me.
It was my best friend.
I'd spotted Vivienne and Richard coming out of the hall with the cancer report still in my hand. They were in the middle of rhapsodizing about the concert's opening movement while I was standing there learning the expiration date on my own life.
"Don't say that about Josephine, Richard," Vivienne said, her smile widening. "You're still her husband."
The contempt on his face only sharpened. "Every word I said is true. She's built for scrubbing pans. If I took her anywhere public, she'd embarrass herself on her own."
I stood there and let every word land. My fingers closed tighter around the report.
Richard had forgotten that he'd been the one to beg me to marry him.
Before the wedding, I was a creative director with my own team at one of the biggest ad agencies in the city. I was the woman people whispered about in boardrooms.
It was him, and this marriage, that had rewritten me.
My son chimed in, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Dad, honestly, I don't know why you ever picked her. You had better options."
I froze.
He wasn't that little boy anymore — the one who used to trail behind me in the hallway, chanting Mommy, Mommy until I turned around.
As he said it, his eyes flicked meaningfully toward Vivienne.
She flushed on cue. "Ethan, don't say things like that. If Josephine heard you she'd misunderstand."
Richard's expression didn't soften. "Everything I said is true. Even if Josephine were standing right here, she'd just have to sit and take it."
I stood there, staring at the three of them.
Then Vivienne turned — and her eyes widened when she saw me.
She came toward me, every step a small performance. "Josephine, what are you doing here? Did you come to the concert? But I'm sure Richard didn't buy you a ticket."
She knit her brows, worried, solicitous. Flawless.
I didn't answer. My eyes were fixed on her hand.
A diamond ring. Brilliant, unmistakable — identical to the one I'd found in Richard's briefcase three days ago.
Forty years ago, when Richard and I got married, neither family had money for a real diamond. On our wedding day he'd sworn to me that he'd get me one eventually. That he'd make it right.
Year after year his bonuses grew, his portfolio grew, his name on the Sterling Capital masthead moved higher. That diamond ring never came.
I'd convinced myself the one in his briefcase was finally mine. A forty-year anniversary. A belated apology.
Now I understood. It was just something he'd picked up for Vivienne, the way some men bring home flowers.
Without thinking, I took a step forward. I just wanted a closer look at the ring I didn't deserve.
Richard threw himself between us like I was a wild animal.
His voice dropped, gentle enough not to startle her. "What exactly do you think you're doing? That ring is a gift I bought for Vivienne. Could you try, for once, not to be so pathetic?"
Vivienne stood behind him, composed, protected, an untouched painting.
And I was the beast he had to hold back.