“Caprese’s eyes are bigger than his stomach.”

“You could squeeze him out more subtly,” offered Marcella. “Pick up the blocks around him. It wouldn’t be a direct attack—no grounds for retaliation—but the message is clear.”

The conversation crumbled. The men went quiet.

After a pained moment, Marcus simply smiled. “My wife, the business major,” he said blandly.

Marcella felt herself flush as the other men shared a knowing chuckle. Hutch looked at her, his own laugh slack, hollow. “Marcella, we must be boring you. I’m sure you’d be happier with the other wives.”

Marcella’s answer was already poised on her lips, but Marcus cut in first. “Go on, Marce,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Let the men talk.”

She wanted to grab his jaw, dig her nails in until they drew blood.

Instead, she smiled. Arranged her face into a mask of serenity.

Appearance was everything.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

She turned away, plucked a champagne flute from a passing server, held the glass so tight her fingers hurt. She felt their eyes follow her across the roof.

What’s the point of having beautiful things, if you don’t put them on display?

She hadn’t realized, at the time, that Marcus had referred to her as a thing. The comment had slid off like a silk gown, pretty and weightless, but—

“Marcella!” called a woman in a familiar singsong voice. Her heels were pushing six inches, which was probably why she was sitting down,

holding court in a dark red gown. It was the perfect color—Grace was blond, and fair, and the dress stood out like blood on skin.

“Have you been evicted?” asked Theresa, seated as well and sipping a large drink.

“God no,” said Marcella, “they were boring me to tears.”

“Too much shop talk,” said Bethany, bangles clanging as she flicked her wrist. More beauty than brains in that one, thought Marcella, not for the first time.

“They may think they’re kings,” said Grace, “but we’re the power behind the throne.”

A tinkle of laughter sounded nearby.

There was a second group of women, clustered in another corner of the roof, in higher heels and shorter dresses. The girlfriends. The second and third wives. The side pieces. Newer models, Grace would say.

“How’s Marcus?” asked Bethany. “I hope you’re keeping him on a leash.”

“Oh,” she said, sipping her champagne, “he’d never cheat.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Theresa.

Marcella met Marcus’s eyes across the roof.

“Because,” she said, raising her glass, “he knows I’d kill him first.”

* * *

“DID you have a nice night?” Marcella asked later as the car pulled away from the party.

Marcus was all energy. “It went off without a hitch. Or a hutch.” He chuckled at his own joke. Marcella didn’t. “He’s taken a liking to me, I can tell. Said he’d call me in the morning. Something new. Something big.” He pulled her close. “You were right.”

“I’m always right,” she said absently, looking out the window. “Let’s stay in the city tonight.”