He claimed her in his office– I saw, heart pounding, and discovered a need darker than betrayal.
The yearly Blackwood Corp gala is less an event and more a required display screen of fealty. I dislike it. I despise the starchy collar of my rented tuxedo that saws at my neck, the dull chardonnay that tastes of corporate indifference, and most importantly, the means it makes me really feel: little, interchangeable, a gear in a machine so large I can only guess at its true feature.
From my self-imposed exile near a towering ice sculpture of the business logo design– already sweating under the ballroom lights like a junior director cornered by a vice head of state– I have a perfect, painful sight of my partner.
My Scarlett.
Tonight, she’s not the female that laughs at my foolish jokes in our sunlit cooking area or sleeps with her head on my breast, giving off lavender and convenience. Tonight, she’s a masterpiece, a living work of art created for the express objective of my torment. She’s wearing the crimson gown. A slip of silk so red it seems to draw all the light from the space simply to radiate it back with two times the strength. The outfit she purchased for our wedding anniversary, the one she modeled …