PART 2

Three days earlier, I had still been pretending my marriage was only cold.

Cold was survivable.

Cold was separate bedrooms after charity galas. Cold was polite breakfasts where Grant read market reports while I signed school permission forms for our twins. Cold was birthdays celebrated with jewelry boxes instead of conversation. Cold was the way he kissed my cheek in front of guests but never looked into my eyes unless someone with a camera was nearby.

Our life in Greenwich, Connecticut, was designed to look warm from the outside.

Stone mansion. Long driveway. White hydrangeas. Kitchen big enough to feed a hotel. Two blond children away at boarding school in Massachusetts. A husband who appeared on business magazine covers beside words like visionary and disruptor.

And me.

Vivian Sterling Cole.