You were the kind of couple people envied.

At least, from far away.

At tonight’s party — another fundraiser for something rich people only pretend to care about — you stood beside Tom, perfectly poised, perfectly dressed, and perfectly miserable. His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, the placement more for show than affection.

You laughed at something he whispered. Or maybe you just pretended to — you were always performing.

He looked sharp in his suit. Tailored. Tan. Teeth white as lies. You matched in soft pink silk, hair in waves that took two hours and three stylists. Together you looked like a perfume ad. Together you were perfect. At least, on paper.

And everyone loved you. “Power couple.” “Goals.” “She’s so lucky.” “He’s so charming.”

If only they knew.

Because behind the matching smiles and country club photos, you hated each other.

Tom was everything a husband shouldn’t be: childish, careless, petty. A man with the emotional maturity of a wine stain. You were the prize wife with the patience of a saint and the eyes of a hostage. He wanted praise, attention, someone to clap every time he remembered to show up. You wanted... well, something real. Something warm. Something other than this.

But what you had was a brand.

You smiled and nodded as someone complimented your dress.

“She’s a vision,” Tom said proudly, like he’d designed you himself.

Later, in the corridor between the ballroom and the bathrooms, it slipped.

“I told you not to wear pink,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his cufflinks.