The ballroom glittered as if someone had dipped it in champagne. Crystal chandeliers hung high, spilling golden light over the polished marble floors. Waiters moved quietly among the guests, their crisp uniforms spotless, carrying trays of crystal flutes filled with sparkling champagne. Women balanced drinks in one hand and polite smiles in the other, their laughter rising and falling like music that never really reached anyone's eyes. The smell of roses mingled with expensive perfume, a scent so familiar to me it almost felt like part of the walls.
I smoothed my navy gown as I walked, the silk soft against my skin and clinging to my curves in all the right places. Diamonds sparkled at my throat, heavy enough to feel like a small weight reminding me of the life I led. I noticed women turning slightly as I passed, complimenting the cut of my dress, the color, even my earrings. We all looked beautiful, all polished and perfect, like actors who had memorized their roles. I smiled politely, answered with the same gracious words I had said countless times, but my thoughts wandered elsewhere.
It was then that I saw her. Clarissa Gale. The governor's younger sister and tonight's host. She had a way of standing out without trying, of pulling all eyes toward her without asking for attention. Draped in emerald satin, her hair perfectly in place, she moved toward me with a smile that was wide and bold. It had warmth in it, but also mischief. Her eyes twinkled as if she was carrying some private joke that only she knew.
Clarissa had a reputation for two things. One, she asked questions people usually whispered about, and two, she had been divorced twice. Both things gave her a kind of reckless freedom, a bravery that sometimes frightened people and sometimes fascinated them. She came close, leaning in to air-kiss my cheek, and said, "My dear, you look divine, as always. Tell me, how do you keep yourself busy when you are not dazzling us at these events?"
I gave the rehearsed answer. "Charity boards, occasional travel, supporting Maxwell's initiatives," I said, my voice calm and even.
She did not seem impressed. She leaned in, lowering her voice as if she were sharing a secret. "That is not living, darling. That is existing through your husband. What do you do for yourself?"
I stiffened at her words, feeling a prickling discomfort. She was not being rude exactly, but her question hit a nerve I had been ignoring for years. I opened my mouth to answer, but the right words would not come. She noticed my pause and smiled knowingly.
"I host these galas, yes, of course," she said, tilting her head slightly. "But I also take pottery classes. Messy, ridiculous, liberating. It is a way to remind myself I am human. Otherwise, all this"—she gestured at the chandeliers, the gowns, the sparkling glasses—"starts to feel like a cage."
Her words stayed with me longer than they should have. The conversation was brief, casual even, and before I knew it she had drifted away toward another guest, laughing and sparkling as though nothing had happened. But that night, when I finally slipped out of my gown and into the quiet of my room, I found myself opening my laptop. I searched for pottery classes near me.
It was absurd. Pottery? For someone like me, a billionaire's wife, who wore diamonds almost like armor? Pottery was for schoolchildren, for artists with paint-stained fingers, for people who had time to make mistakes and leave them behind. What business did I have with a lump of clay? It felt childish and embarrassing. And yet, I could not shake the thought. By the end of the week, I had booked a single session. Just one. Just to see. Just to prove to myself it was nothing.
The studio smelled of clay and kiln smoke. It was unlike the perfume-scented halls of the gala. The tables were dusty, covered in white powder, and shelves were stacked with crooked bowls and half-glazed mugs. Everything felt alive in its imperfection. I took a slow breath, letting the smell and the quiet sink into me.
And then I saw him.
The potter. He was younger than me, not by decades, but enough that it felt dangerous. Compared to the man I had married, he was a boy in the most infuriating and tempting way. His hands were coated in clay, forearms strong beneath rolled-up sleeves. His hair was a little too long, falling in loose strands over his forehead. His eyes were amber, warm, inviting. And his smile, easy, genuine, unguarded, hit me like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"First time?" His voice was light, teasing, casual.
I nodded, aware suddenly of how stiff I was, how sharp my heels sounded on the studio floor, how tight my coat felt around my shoulders.
"Don't worry," he said, flashing that grin again. "Clay does not care if you are perfect. In fact, it is more fun when you are not."
I watched him as he turned back to the wheel. His fingers pressed into the mound of clay, shaping it with a kind of patience and rough tenderness. The wheel spun, water slicked his hands, and the clay obeyed him as if it were alive. There was nothing elegant about it. Mess clung under his nails, streaked up his arms, yet I could not look away.
I felt something stir deep inside me. Something I had forgotten existed. The way he leaned into the clay, the careful way his fingers moved, the quiet focus in his eyes, it made my chest tighten and my breath catch. I imagined those hands on me, guiding me, shaping me in ways I had long forgotten. I shook the thought from my mind, but it lingered stubbornly, teasing me.
"Come on," he said suddenly, nodding at the empty stool beside him. "Your turn."
I froze. "I will just watch," I said, my voice shaky.
"No chance," he said, grinning. "You don't learn by staring."
I slid off my coat, stiff and awkward, and sat on the stool. He nudged a lump of clay toward me. I pressed my palms against it, feeling it cold and soft beneath my fingers, but the wheel spun too fast. The clay slipped and twisted, collapsing into a lopsided mess.
"Relax," he said, moving closer. "Let it move with you, not against you."
Before I could protest, his hands were over mine. Warm, firm, steady. His chest brushed my shoulder as he leaned in, his breath gentle against my cheek. Our fingers pressed together into the clay, shaping it as one. I felt my heart beat faster, heat rising in my chest and coiling low in my belly. I should have pulled away. I should have remembered my place, my vows, my husband. But I could not. All I could think about was the brush of his skin, the certainty in his touch, the way he made me feel human again.
When the session ended, I gathered my coat with trembling fingers. I could not look at him, could not meet his eyes, as I hurried out. The night air hit me sharply as soon as I stepped outside. It was cold and bracing, cutting through the haze of warmth that clung to me.
"No more," I whispered to myself, wrapping my arms around me as if the words alone could make them true. "I will not go back there."
I slid into the backseat of my waiting car. The leather felt cold beneath my palms. The driver glanced at me through the mirror, but I gave only a faint, practiced smile, the same polite smile I had worn for years, the one that hid everything.
As the city lights blurred past the window, I forced myself to breathe slowly, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me. I am Mrs. Deverell, wife to one of the most powerful men in the country. People envy me, admire me, consider me untouchable. I have no business being shaken by clay or a young man with amber eyes and warm, certain hands.
And yet, when I closed my eyes, I did not see chandeliers or marble floors. I saw the wheel spinning, water and clay glistening under his touch, hands guiding and shaping with care. I saw a freedom I had almost forgotten existed, a feeling I had not allowed myself to have in years.
I straightened in my seat, lifted my chin, trying to banish the memory with posture alone. This would be the end of it. It had to be.
But the memory followed me home, silent, dangerous, insistent. It pressed against the edges of my perfect life like a secret waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to unravel me.
I could not let it. And yet, I could not stop thinking of him.