“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.”

“Good idea,” said Marcus. He knocked on the partition, gave the driver the address of their place at the Heights, told him to hurry. And then he sat back, pressing against her. “They couldn’t take their eyes off you. I don’t blame them. Neither could I.”

“Not here,” she said, trying to force a little humor in her voice.

“You’ll ruin my dress.”

“Fuck your dress,” he breathed in her ear. “I want you.”

But Marcella pushed him away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Marcella’s gaze flicked toward him. “My wife, the business major?”

He rolled his eyes. “Marce.”

“Let the men talk?”

“Oh, come on.”

“You made a fool of me.”

He made a sound too close to a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

Marcella gritted her teeth. “You’re very lucky I didn’t react at the time.”

Marcus soured. “This isn’t a good look on you, Marce.”

The car pulled up in front of the Heights, and Marcella resisted the urge to storm out. She flicked open the door and rose, smoothing the gold scales on her dress as she waited for Marcus to round the car.

“Good evening,” said the concierge. “Nice night?”

“Flawless,” said Marcella, stepping briskly into the elevator, Marcus in her wake. He waited until the doors were closed, then sighed, shook his head.

“You know what those guys are like,” he muttered. “Old guard. Old money. Old values. You wanted this. You wanted me to do this.”

“With me,” she snapped. “I wanted us to do this, together.” He tried to cut in, but she didn’t let him. “I’m not a fucking coat, Marcus. You don’t get to check me at the door.”

The elevator stopped, and she strode out into the hall, heels clicking on the marble floor. She reached their door, but Marcus caught her hand and pinned her back against the wood. On a normal night, she would have thrilled at the swift display of strength, would have arched against him. But she wasn’t in the mood.

Let the men talk.

“Marcella.”

The laugh. The patronizing smiles.