The Daughter He Never Knew Novel – The ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel sparkled like a jewelry box, crystal chandeliers casting diamond-like shadows across the marble floor. I stood at the entrance, smoothing down the Valentino gown Alex had chosen for me—blood red, backless, with a slit that went daringly high up my thigh. “Remember, Emma,” Alex had said that morning, his gray-blue eyes cold as winter frost, “tonight is important.
Don’t embarrass me.” Now, watching him work the room like a shark circling prey, I wondered when I’d become just another accessory in his perfectly curated life. The Alexander Blackwood who’d swept me off my feet three years ago with roses and promises had vanished, replaced by this stranger in an Armani tux who barely looked at me. “Mrs. Blackwood!” A shrill voice called out. Senator Williams’ wife approached with her plastic smile. “You look… adequate tonight.” Adequate.
In a dress that cost more than most people’s cars. I forced my lips into the practiced smile Alex demanded. “Thank you, Patricia. You look lovely as well.” The lie came easily now. Three years of practice had made me an expert at playing the perfect trophy wife. I watched Alex across the room, his hand on the small of some blonde investor’s back as he laughed at something she said. When was the last time he’d touched me like that? When was the last time he’d laughed with me at all?
“Champagne, ma’am?” A waiter appeared at my elbow. I grabbed two glasses, downing the first in one go. The second, I nursed while making small talk with the other abandoned wives. We were like beautiful birds in gilded cages, comparing our prison bars. The night dragged on. Alex hadn’t looked at me once. Not when I’d walked down the stairs in this dress he’d chosen. Not when Senator Williams complimented my “radiance.” Not even when his business partner, Mr. Chen, openly stared at my cleavage.
Finally, at midnight, the auction ended and guests began to leave. I found Alex by the bar, his phone pressed to his ear. “We’re leaving,” I said quietly when he hung up. He barely glanced at me. “The driver will take you. I have a meeting.” “At midnight?” His eyes flashed dangerously. “Are you questioning me?” Three years ago, I would have. Three years ago, he would have cancelled any meeting to take me home, to peel this dress off me slowly, to make love to me against our bedroom wall.
Now, I just nodded. “Of course not.” The ride home was silent except for the driver’s occasional cough. The Pacific Heights mansion loomed before me, all glass and sharp edges, as cold and unwelcoming as its owner. I walked through the massive doors into the marble foyer, my heels echoing in the emptiness. Our bedroom—his bedroom, really, since he rarely slept there anymore—was pristine.
The California king bed stretched endlessly, the sheets cold and untouched. I sat at my vanity, removing the Harry Winston diamonds he insisted I wear, when I heard a car pull up. Hope fluttered in my chest. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe tonight would be different. But the car drove away without stopping. I stared at my reflection—perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect dress. All of it a perfect lie. In the mirror, I saw the truth: I wasn’t a wife.
I was a prisoner in designer clothing, locked in a mansion that would never be a home. My phone buzzed. Danny. “Em? You awake?” “Yeah, sweetie. What’s wrong?” “Nothing, just… the doctors want to run some tests tomorrow. Routine stuff.” My blood chilled. With Danny, nothing was ever routine. “I’ll be there,” I promised.
“You don’t have to—” “I’ll be there.” After hanging up, I looked around the empty bedroom, at the king-sized bed that might as well have been an ocean between Alex and me.