My husband locked me out of the gala he was hosting while he took his mistress instead. “The lights give her a migraine,” he lied to the press. As he stood on stage, I walked in, and the entire room stood up. I looked at him and said, “This is my party, Julian.” His face went pale as he realized who I really was…

The soil beneath my fingernails was cool, a stark contrast to the humidity pressing down on the Connecticut afternoon. I was on my knees in the dirt, the knees of my grey sweatpants stained a deep, earthy brown. To the world—or at least, the very small slice of the world my husband allowed me to occupy—I was Elara. Just Elara. The woman who baked sourdough, who wrote thank-you notes on heavy cream stationery, and who got excited about the pH levels of her hydrangea beds.

I tucked a vibrant blue mophead hydrangea into the earth, patting the soil down with a gentleness that Julian, my husband, often mistook for weakness.

“Simple,” he called me. “Grounded.”

He meant harmless.

My phone, resting on a flat stone beside my trowel, buzzed. It wasn’t a call; it was a notification from the Vanguard Gala’s security protocol.

I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving streaks of loam on the fabric, and picked it up. The screen was bright against the overcast sky.

ALERT: VIP ACCESS REVOKED
NAME: ELARA THORN
AUTHORIZED BY: JULIAN THORN