My ex-husband was the best man, which I had known in theory but had not fully prepared to feel in practice. He wore a black tuxedo tailored to make him appear broader, kinder, and more elegant than he had ever been in private. A young woman in a silver dress clung to his arm, laughing too quickly at everything he said. He moved through the reception with the relaxed arrogance of a man who believed every person present was either useful, impressed, or beneath him.
Our marriage had lasted two years, though the damage had started much earlier than the wedding and lasted long after the divorce. Blaine had mastered the particular cruelty of polished men: private insults wrapped in public charm, apologies that became accusations, and constant reminders that a woman in a wheelchair should be grateful when a powerful man stood beside her in photographs.
He told me I was brilliant only when he needed my work.
He told me I was fragile when I questioned him.
He told me I would disappear without his name.
