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“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that,” I growl at her.
“I’m not your wife,” Emily snaps, her nostrils flaring. “Not anymore.”
I drop Madeline’s hand and turn to her. “Actually, you may have been quick to sign those papers, but I have no interest in doing so. Therefore, we’re still married, darling.”
I turn back to Madeline to give her a piece of my mind, but my face meets a fist instead.
Smack.
I rub my jaw as a thumping ache spreads across it. “What the-”
Madeline’s blotchy face comes into view, and there’s a hush.
Everyone has stopped talking and is looking. But Madeline is not bothered about making a scene. She’s never cared about anyone other than herself, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
Yet, I still am.
“Your father says you’re here to meet the Art Queen,” she hisses.
I glance at Emily before I frown at Madeline. “So?”
Madeline lifts her chin and marches forward, a smug smile on her face. “The Art Queen, the most well-known artist in the 70s, who hasn’t produced a new piece of art for at least thirty years… who hasn’t been seen for at least ten.”
She tilts her head at me, like she’s looking at a child who believes wholly in the magic of Father Christmas. “What makes you think she’ll be here?”
“Emily is her granddaughter, and she said-”
Madeline’s howling laugh stops me mid-sentence. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. “Did you just say Emily is the Art Queen’s granddaughter?”
“Oh no,” Emily mutters from my left.
My face tugs into a deep frown. “What…”
Madeline snorts and pokes Emily’s shoulder. “You stand there, judging me, while you’re swaning around pretending to be someone you’re not.”
She scoffs then turns back to meet my puzzled stare. “The Art Queen is Gloria Knowles. She has one granddaughter, who happened to be my friend for many years. We grew up together.”She makes dramatic pause and points at Emily, looking out at the sea of curious faces. “And that, is not her granddaughter.”
As the revelation sinks in, the room falls into a stunned silence.
Emily stands there, her face a mixture of shock and shame. A brown-haired woman steps forward, her expression apologetic.
"I'm so sorry Mr. Willoughby," she begins.
She’s wearing the same skirt Emily wore the day we met. And if I hadn’t known any better, I’d think this woman was Emily’s sister.
"My name is Sasha. If there’s anyone you should be mad at, it’s me. I forced Emily to pose as me. You see, I am Gloria Knowles' granddaughter, and I'm afraid she won't be making an appearance tonight."
“Again? What’s this all about?” I ask, searching her face for answers. But Sasha bites her lip and looks around, her face an expression of fear and insecurity.
Madeline's laughter echoes through the hall, a sound filled with triumph and mockery.
Emily, her face pale, turns to me, her eyes pleading for understanding. "William, I never meant for it to go this far. I'm so sorry I lied to you."
But the words, the stares, the revelation – it's all too much.
Then I see my father standing to the side, his cold stare slices me to the bone.
Numbness settles over me as I look at Emily. The woman I thought I knew, the woman I married.
