Chapter 6: The Forgotten Wife
Florida stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her plain black dress for the third time.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed down the fabric. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach. It didn't help. The nausea wasn't physical — it was fear.
She had no jewelry, no makeup, no designer shoes. Just silence and careful posture.
A knock came.
"Dinner is starting," the maid said.
—
The dining hall was grand and golden. Laughter floated through the air like music Florida couldn't join in.
She stepped inside slowly.
Bryant was already seated.
He stood when he saw her.
"Darling, over here," he said loud enough for the room to hear.
Eyes turned.
Florida walked toward him, legs stiff and clumsy. Her heel caught the edge of the rug — just slightly — but enough to throw off her balance. Her hand instinctively reached out.
Bryant caught her wrist gently before she fell.
His grip was firm, warm — and lingered one second longer than it needed to.
She looked up, startled.
He let go quickly.
"You're late," he said under his breath. Then added with a smile, "Couldn't wait to see you?"
Soft laughter bubbled from a cousin at the far end.
Florida gave a small, shaky smile and took her seat beside him.
People whispered.
"She's… different," someone murmured.
Liza sipped her wine. Her lips barely moved.
> "She doesn't look like your usual type,"
she said lightly, her tone all sweetness — and blade.
Bryant didn't look at her.
Instead, he reached for Florida's hand under the table and gave it a soft squeeze.
"Maybe I'm tired of usual," he replied calmly.
Florida's heart thudded against her ribs.
His fingers relaxed, but didn't pull away immediately.
She wasn't sure if he forgot or didn't care.
Either way, her hands were cold.
Liza's laugh was quiet. "Strange how fast things change. You were just in Italy last month... alone."
Someone raised an eyebrow.
Bryant smiled again, but this one didn't reach his eyes.
"We've both moved on."
Florida's fork slipped from her fingers. It clattered against the plate.
She quickly picked it up, whispering, "Sorry."
He reached for her napkin and handed it over without looking at her.
His jaw was tight. His eyes stayed forward.
Dinner passed slowly. Words floated around her — business deals, art auctions, charity events. None included her.
But whenever someone looked too long, Bryant would brush her hand or refill her glass. He was polite. Attentive.
Convincing.
And it hurt more than coldness.
Because it looked like love.
But it wasn't.
As dessert arrived, Florida shifted in her seat, eyes on the flickering candles.
> This is what being loved looks like… when it isn't real.
And somehow, that felt lonelier than being ignored.
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End of Chapter 6
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