Chapter 8
The lights dimmed. A projector lit up the massive screen behind the stage.
Photos appeared — Dominic and Madeleine through the years. Their first meeting. Vacations. Candlelit dinners. Each image curated to tell a love story.
Then the images changed.
My stomach dropped.
Photos of me appeared on screen. Me at twenty-two, during my marriage to Dominic. Me in oversized sweaters, trying to look smaller. Me cooking dinner in his empty kitchen. Me waiting by the door at midnight, half-asleep on the sofa.
Intimate photos. Photos that could only have come from the security cameras in Dominic's penthouse.
The crowd gasped. Then the laughter started.
"Oh my God — that's her?"
"She used to just… wait for him?"
"That's so pathetic. Sitting by the door like a dog."
"No wonder he left her."
Bile rose in my throat. I gripped the edge of my chair.
On stage, Madeleine gasped — a perfect performance. "What — who put those up? Take them down! Take them down immediately!"
She turned to Dominic, her eyes wide with horror. "Dom, I didn't do this. I swear I didn't—"
Dominic's face was granite. His gaze cut through the crowd and found me. In his eyes, I saw it — the accusation. He thought I'd done this. Uploaded old photos to humiliate myself and sabotage their night.
He left the stage and walked straight toward me.
"Outside," he said. One word. A command.
"I didn't do this." My voice was steady, but my hands shook beneath the table. "Why would I humiliate myself?"
"I said outside." He grabbed my arm.
Before his fingers could close, another hand intercepted — long fingers closing around Dominic's wrist with controlled precision.
"Take your hand off her."
Ethan's voice was quiet. Conversational. And colder than anything I'd ever heard.
Dominic froze. He looked up at Ethan, confusion breaking through his anger. "Carrington? What are you—"
"I said," Ethan repeated, each word measured, "take your hand off my wife."
The ballroom went silent.
Three hundred people stopped breathing.
Dominic's hand fell away. He stared at Ethan, then at me, then back at Ethan. For the first time in five years, I saw something crack in his composure.
"Your… wife?"
Ethan stepped between us. He didn't look at Dominic again. He looked at me — and his expression softened completely. He brushed a strand of hair from my face.
"Are you all right?" he murmured.
I nodded. My eyes burned.
Then Ethan turned back to face the room. His voice carried — clear, calm, and absolutely devastating.
"My name is Ethan Carrington. Juliana is my wife. The mother of my children." He paused. Let it land. "If anyone in this room has something to say about her, say it to me."
Silence.
Total, absolute silence.
---
Photos appeared — Dominic and Madeleine through the years. Their first meeting. Vacations. Candlelit dinners. Each image curated to tell a love story.
Then the images changed.
My stomach dropped.
Photos of me appeared on screen. Me at twenty-two, during my marriage to Dominic. Me in oversized sweaters, trying to look smaller. Me cooking dinner in his empty kitchen. Me waiting by the door at midnight, half-asleep on the sofa.
Intimate photos. Photos that could only have come from the security cameras in Dominic's penthouse.
The crowd gasped. Then the laughter started.
"Oh my God — that's her?"
"She used to just… wait for him?"
"That's so pathetic. Sitting by the door like a dog."
"No wonder he left her."
Bile rose in my throat. I gripped the edge of my chair.
On stage, Madeleine gasped — a perfect performance. "What — who put those up? Take them down! Take them down immediately!"
She turned to Dominic, her eyes wide with horror. "Dom, I didn't do this. I swear I didn't—"
Dominic's face was granite. His gaze cut through the crowd and found me. In his eyes, I saw it — the accusation. He thought I'd done this. Uploaded old photos to humiliate myself and sabotage their night.
He left the stage and walked straight toward me.
"Outside," he said. One word. A command.
"I didn't do this." My voice was steady, but my hands shook beneath the table. "Why would I humiliate myself?"
"I said outside." He grabbed my arm.
Before his fingers could close, another hand intercepted — long fingers closing around Dominic's wrist with controlled precision.
"Take your hand off her."
Ethan's voice was quiet. Conversational. And colder than anything I'd ever heard.
Dominic froze. He looked up at Ethan, confusion breaking through his anger. "Carrington? What are you—"
"I said," Ethan repeated, each word measured, "take your hand off my wife."
The ballroom went silent.
Three hundred people stopped breathing.
Dominic's hand fell away. He stared at Ethan, then at me, then back at Ethan. For the first time in five years, I saw something crack in his composure.
"Your… wife?"
Ethan stepped between us. He didn't look at Dominic again. He looked at me — and his expression softened completely. He brushed a strand of hair from my face.
"Are you all right?" he murmured.
I nodded. My eyes burned.
Then Ethan turned back to face the room. His voice carried — clear, calm, and absolutely devastating.
"My name is Ethan Carrington. Juliana is my wife. The mother of my children." He paused. Let it land. "If anyone in this room has something to say about her, say it to me."
Silence.
Total, absolute silence.
---