Three hours ago, after all my begging and pleading, Patrick had agreed to make our marriage public. Even though he'd said he could only announce it internally at the company, I'd been over the moon. I'd actually let myself believe I meant something to him.
Then we ran into Edith Pruitt in the company's underground parking garage. She was surrounded by a pack of reporters, cornered and terrified.
I knew who she was. Former girl-group member. Years ago, she'd been so lovesick she walked away from her contract, risking millions in penalties just to quit.
She'd chased a man overseas, threw herself at him for three years, and never got so much as a title. In the end, someone else beat her to it, and she became the other woman. Then came the rumors — pregnant and unmarried, a failed power play, and a humiliating return home.
I turned to tell Patrick we should leave, but froze. He'd already gotten out of the car. I hadn't even noticed. He was walking toward Edith with steady, purposeful strides.