OLIVIA
The day had started like any other, with a knock on the door that made my heart leap with joy, only for my hopes to be dashed when Kate’s head popped through the crack.
“Good morning,” she said with a thin smile. “Ready to start the day?”
“No,” I replied, closing my eyes. I heard her chuckle and the door click softly shut. A few seconds later, she sat on the bed, waiting for me to open my eyes.
“We have to go soon,” she said after a while. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall.
“We have to check the restaurant, make sure it’s okay for the dinner...” she continued, but I waved dismissively and sat up.
“I don’t care about that. Wherever you pick is fine,” I said, getting out of bed.
“It’s your birthday, you should be happier,” she said, watching as I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my head.
“What’s the point? It’s just another day. I’m going to spend the evening with a bunch of people I don’t know but have to suck up to because their money funds our lifestyle,” I said, looking around the room.
“They’re your partners, and that reminds me—you have a meeting with Signor Dante,” she replied. I shook my head.
“And yet you ask why I’m not happy. Even on my birthday, I’m working. And my dear, wonderful yet absent husband is doing what?” I retorted, folding my arms.
She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, and I chuckled.
“That makes two of us,” I replied, walking to the bathroom. “I just want to get the day over with. Tell the driver to get ready,” I added, shutting the door behind me.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror and listened as Kate left the room. When she closed the door, I turned on the tap and let the cold water run down my palms.
“Today is just another day,” I muttered, wondering if I was trying to convince myself not to take anything that happened today seriously—a way to ward off disappointment.
It made more sense to be apathetic about whatever the day might throw my way. My days haven’t been the best lately, and I’ve grown accustomed to preparing for the worst.
“My birthday,” I whispered as I stepped into the bathtub. My birthday hadn’t mattered to anyone but Kate in a long time. The only thing that could make today different was if someone else—preferably my husband—remembered what day it was and acted accordingly.
But I knew that was too much to hope for, so I pushed the thought away and focused on taking my bath. A few minutes later, I headed to the front door, where Kate was waiting for me.
“Where are we heading first?” I asked as she reached for the door and pulled it open.
“The meeting with—” she started, but I groaned.
“Signor Dante. That insufferable man,” I interrupted, and she chuckled.
“Yes, that. And then we’re going to the restaurant to check on preparations before heading home to get ready for dinner,” she answered, and I sighed.
“Again, I’m not going to the restaurant with you. You handle what needs to be done. I’ll come home and lie in bed until it’s time to leave. If I had my way, I’d stay home all day,” I replied, walking past her.
“I’m not letting you stay in bed, doing nothing, on a day you’re supposed to be happy,” she said.
I rolled my eyes, and she clicked her tongue. A few seconds later, the driver pulled up to the entrance, got out, and held the door open for us. Throughout the drive, Kate rambled on about meetings and work-related matters, but I couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. I knew those problems could be fixed; what couldn’t be fixed was the pain I felt knowing Cyril hadn’t called to say happy birthday.
I reached into my bag and picked up my phone, hoping he had at least sent a message. I put the phone away when I saw that even the bare minimum was too much to ask. We arrived at the office, and I spent the next few hours in meetings while Kate left to make sure everything for dinner went according to plan. I was grateful the hours rolled by without a hitch and that it was finally time to go home.
*****
“We’ve got an hour to prepare for the dinner,” Kate called loudly as she walked into the bedroom.
My eyes fluttered open, and I glared at her.
“Weren’t you taught to knock?” I asked, and she shrugged.
“You have a habit of not answering the door when you don’t want to do something. I didn’t want a repeat of that,” she replied, placing a bag on the bed.
“What’s that?” I asked, getting out of bed.
“Your dress. You need to try it on. We’ve got an hour before—” she started, and I sighed.
“How many people are going to be at this… thing?” I interrupted, and she raised an eyebrow.
“This ‘thing,’” she answered, using air quotes, “is your birthday dinner. The guests include people from the office, business partners, and their plus-ones.”
“Everyone but the people I actually want to spend the day with. Peachy,” I replied dryly, walking to the bathroom.
I intended to treat it like just another function I had to attend, but nothing could have prepared me for what the evening had in store. Half an hour later, we walked into the restaurant where Kate had made the reservations. I glanced around and nodded in approval.
“I told you you’d do great with the plans,” I said, and she grinned.
“I knew you’d like it,” she replied, making her way to the front of the room to address everyone.
I scanned the faces at the tables, searching for someone familiar. To my utter surprise, there was one—the person I had hoped to speak with all day, my husband, Cyril Penhurst. My face lit up, and I started to walk toward the table. But then I realized he wasn’t alone, nor was he there for the party. He was having dinner with someone else—the red-haired woman I’d seen him with before.
My stomach turned as he picked up his fork and fed her pasta from his plate. It was one thing to be disrespected by a man who paraded around with other women while ignoring his wife at home. It was another to bring that disgraceful behavior to my birthday dinner.
“About time this nonsense stopped,” I muttered, walking toward their table.
