The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom at The Plaza hummed with a low, golden light.

I adjusted the strand of pearls at my throat, my fingers trembling slightly.

This was supposed to be my daughter Mia’s night.

She had graduated from Spence this morning, third in her class.

The white tablecloth before me was set for six, decorated with fresh lilies and polished silver cutlery.

But my husband, Preston, was late.

And Mia’s seat next to me remained empty.

“He promised he would make it on time,” Mia said, her voice small as she stood beside the table.

She adjusted the hem of her white graduation dress, her eyes fixed on the grand entrance of the ballroom.

“He will be here, sweetie,” I said, trying to force a reassuring smile.

Then the heavy oak doors swung open.

Preston walked in, his tailored suit immaculate, his silver hair perfectly styled.

He was not alone.

Samantha Mercer walked a step behind him, wearing a red silk dress that defied the evening’s formal atmosphere.

Samantha was Preston’s chief financial officer, and, as I had discovered three days ago, his mistress.

“Sorry we’re late,” Preston said, his voice smooth and loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear.

“Traffic on the FDR was a nightmare.”

He pulled out the chair directly next to mine—the one marked with Mia’s hand-written place card.

“Sit here, Samantha,” Preston said, gesturing to my daughter’s seat.

“Preston, that is Mia’s seat,” I said, my voice cold.

Samantha offered a tight, artificial smile.

“Oh, I’m sure Mia doesn’t mind sharing,” Samantha said, her hand brushing Preston’s shoulder as she sat.

“Actually, I do,” Mia whispered, her face turning pale.

Preston frowned at our daughter, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Don’t be dramatic, Mia,” he said. “Samantha had to review some urgent merger documents with me on the ride over.”

“She has worked very hard to secure the Henderson account,” Preston added, his voice dripping with condescension.

“And she deserves to celebrate with the family.”

“She is not family,” I said.

My hand clutched my glass so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“She sits here, Claire,” Preston said, his tone sharpening into a warning. “Let’s not make a scene.”