When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

“You told me you were buried in debt,” I continued, louder now. “You made me feel guilty for every extra dollar spent on groceries. You said we couldn’t afford a doctor when I had that flu. I sat up late sewing the hems of my dresses because you said it wasn’t the time to buy new ones.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said quickly. “I was going to tell you soon—”

“Soon,” I cut in. “Eight years, Steven. You had eight years.”

His jaw tightened. Behind him, Genevieve shifted her weight, the heel of her shoe clicking softly against the marble. The light caught on her handbag—shimmering leather, polished metal hardware. That Hermès bag.

I remembered standing with Steven outside a luxury boutique once, years ago, the two of us watching a stylish woman emerge with a small orange box.

“When you’re rich,” I’d joked, looping my arm through his, “buy me a Hermès bag. I want one of those. Just one.”

He’d laughed and ruffled my hair. “I’ll buy you two,” he’d said. “One to carry, one to wear on your head so everyone knows you’re my queen.”

Apparently, he had kept that promise.

Just not to me.