Chapter 2 - THE RED DRESS WAS NEVER MEANT FOR HER
“Alexander, who is Veronica Sterling to you?”
The question was so quiet that Isabella barely recognized her own voice.
Her husband stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand resting against the frame.
For three seconds, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
“She's my communications director. You know that.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Alexander's smile disappeared.
Outside, snow drifted past the Manhattan skyline. Inside, the bedroom felt unbearably warm.
“Isabella, it's almost eleven. You're exhausted.”
“Are you in love with her?”
He looked toward the nursery.
It was a small movement.
But Isabella noticed.
“Where is this coming from?” he asked.
“I heard you.”
Alexander lowered his eyes.
She waited for him to deny it.
To explain.
To look ashamed.
Instead, he approached the bed and sat beside her.
“Some conversations aren't meant to be overheard.”
The words struck harder than a confession.
Isabella stared at him.
“That's what you have to say?”
“I'm asking you to trust me.”
“You told another woman you loved her.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't understand the situation.”
“Then explain it.”
He stood.
“Not tonight.”
Isabella looked down at her wedding ring.
Three years earlier, Alexander Blackstone had slipped that ring onto her finger beneath an arch of white roses in Newport.
He had promised that whatever happened, they would never become strangers.
Now she was looking at a man who would not even tell her the truth.
“Are you leaving me?” she asked.
Alexander turned.
Something moved across his face.
Regret, perhaps.
Or fear.
“No,” he said. “I'm trying to prevent something much worse.”
Before she could question him, he left the room.
Isabella remained on the bed until she heard his study door close.
Then she reached for her phone.
She did not call a friend.
She called Eleanor Price.
Eleanor had been Isabella's closest friend since college. At forty-two, she was also one of Manhattan's most respected event planners.
She had coordinated Blackstone Media's annual foundation gala for five years.
And she was coordinating tomorrow night's event at the Plaza.
Eleanor answered on the third ring.
“Bella? Is everything okay?”
“I need to know something.”
“Of course.”
“Is Veronica Sterling attending tomorrow?”
Silence.
“Bella, why?”
“Please.”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered carefully. “She's attending.”
“Is she wearing red?”
Another silence.
Then Eleanor said, “How did you know?”
Isabella closed her eyes.
Alexander's words returned.
Tomorrow night. The Plaza. Wear the red dress.
“Alexander asked me not to come,” Isabella whispered.
“He told everyone you weren't feeling well.”
“I'm seven months pregnant, Eleanor. I'm not dying.”
“I know.”
Something in Eleanor's voice changed.
“There's something else you should understand.”
“What?”
“The gala program was revised this afternoon.”
Isabella straightened.
“What changed?”
“Your name.”
“My name?”
“You were supposed to present the foundation's new maternal health initiative. Remember?”
Isabella remembered perfectly.
She had spent eight months developing the project.
The initiative would fund prenatal care for low-income mothers across New York.
She had personally visited clinics, interviewed nurses, and helped design the program.
It was the first project she had built independently after marrying Alexander.
“What happened to my presentation?”
“Veronica is delivering it.”
Isabella went still.
“And the program credits?”
Eleanor hesitated.
“Veronica Sterling, executive director of special initiatives.”
Isabella pressed a hand over her belly.
Executive director?
Veronica had never held that position.
“She didn't create the initiative.”
“I know, Bella.”
“Then why is she presenting it?”
“Alexander approved the revision.”
For a moment, Isabella could not speak.
The affair was one humiliation.
But this was different.
He was giving another woman the work Isabella had built for herself.
Her purpose.
Her identity.
“Send me the program,” she said.
“Bella—”
“Please, Eleanor.”
Thirty seconds later, the document arrived.
Isabella opened it.
The front cover showed the Manhattan skyline beneath silver lettering.
BLACKSTONE FOUNDATION WINTER GALA.
A NEW BEGINNING.
On page four, a photograph of Veronica appeared beside the maternal health initiative.
Veronica wore a tailored cream suit.
Her expression was confident.
Beneath the photograph were three words.
Founder. Visionary. Advocate.
Isabella stared until the letters blurred.
She had written the original proposal at the kitchen table while struggling through morning sickness.
She had negotiated the clinic partnerships.
She had persuaded Alexander to fund the first phase.
And now her name was gone.
She called Eleanor again.
“Don't change anything,” Isabella said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Bella, what are you planning?”
Isabella looked toward the nursery.
“I'm attending my husband's gala.”
The following afternoon, Alexander found her standing before the bedroom mirror.
She wore a midnight-blue maternity gown.
Its soft fabric fell over her belly, and a narrow silver belt rested beneath her ribs.
Her dark hair was pinned back with the pearl comb her late mother had worn on her own wedding day.
Alexander stopped.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Plaza.”
“I thought we discussed this.”
“No. You told me not to attend. That's different.”
“Isabella, tonight isn't a good night.”
“Why?”
He removed his watch.
It was an old gold Patek Philippe that had belonged to his grandfather.
Alexander always touched the watch when he was anxious.
“Because there are things happening with the company that you don't understand.”
“Does Veronica understand them?”
His hand stopped.
“Don't do this.”
“Do what? Ask why my husband is taking his mistress to an event celebrating a charity I created?”
“Veronica isn't—”
He stopped himself.
Isabella watched him carefully.
“Finish the sentence.”
Alexander looked away.
Finally, he said, “Please stay home. I'm asking you as your husband.”
“And I'm answering you as your wife.”
She picked up her evening coat.
“No.”
At seven forty-five, Isabella entered the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel.
Crystal chandeliers illuminated tables dressed in ivory linen.
White orchids stood beneath towering arrangements of winter branches.
More than three hundred guests filled the room.
Investors.
Politicians.
Philanthropists.
Television executives.
The powerful people who had celebrated Alexander Blackstone's success for years.
Conversations slowed when Isabella appeared.
She understood why.
For weeks, Veronica's carefully worded announcements had suggested that Mrs. Blackstone was taking an extended leave from public duties.
Some people had apparently interpreted that to mean she would not return.
Eleanor hurried toward her.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Eleanor squeezed her hand.
“Bella, there's something you should see.”
She guided Isabella toward a small display near the stage.
Behind glass stood the foundation's original ceremonial dedication plaque.
Isabella had commissioned it herself.
The inscription was supposed to read:
The Isabella Blackstone Maternal Health Initiative.
Instead, a new brass plate had been fitted over the original.
The Veronica Sterling Women's Wellness Initiative.
Isabella touched the glass.
“They even changed the name?”
Eleanor's expression tightened.
“I didn't authorize that.”
Behind them, a familiar voice spoke.
“Isabella.”
Alexander stood several feet away.
He wore a black tuxedo.
Beside him stood Veronica Sterling.
In a red silk gown.
Veronica's hand rested lightly against Alexander's arm.
The same hand Isabella had watched arranging flowers in her penthouse nine months earlier.
Veronica's smile faltered.
“Oh,” she said. “We weren't expecting you.”
Isabella looked at her.
“I can see that.”
Alexander stepped forward.
“Bella, we need to talk privately.”
“Now you want to talk?”
“Please.”
Veronica glanced toward the gathering guests.
“This isn't the place for a personal misunderstanding.”
Isabella turned to her.
“Is that what you're calling it?”
Veronica's cheeks colored.
“I don't know what Alexander has told you.”
“Enough.”
Alexander lowered his voice.
“Isabella. Come with me.”
But before she could answer, the ballroom lights dimmed.
A voice announced the beginning of the foundation presentation.
Alexander looked toward the stage.
For the first time that evening, genuine panic crossed his face.
“Eleanor,” he said sharply, “stop the program.”
Eleanor frowned.
“Why?”
Alexander looked at Isabella.
“Because that presentation cannot go forward.”
Then the enormous screen behind the stage illuminated.
A photograph appeared.
It showed Isabella's original maternal health clinic proposal.
Across the bottom, in Alexander's unmistakable handwriting, was a sentence she had never seen before.
REMOVE ISABELLA BEFORE THE PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT.
May you like
And beneath it was the date.
Three weeks earlier.
