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Your husband is getting married again, and you're on the guest list. You were good enough to stand beside him when he had nothing. Apparently you were never good enough to be the only woman beside him when he had everything. You were never supposed to become a guest at your own husband's wedding — front row, seat three, eleven days' notice.
THE SOVEREIGN GRAND HOTEL — ALDERMOOR. Six hundred guests. Thousands of white roses. A cathedral-length veil worth more than most families earn in a lifetime. And in the front row, a seat reserved for the groom's first wife. Lady Celestine Costaigne stands beside Alfred Belvoir, her diamond-encrusted gown glittering beneath the chandeliers. His hand rests possessively at her waist. Bertie raises his champagne glass, grinning. "Christ, Alfred. Six years of marriage, and you've managed to make your own wife a wedding guest." Isadora bursts into laughter. "At least Mother didn't put her at the servants' table." Several nobles laugh behind jeweled fans. "Poor thing. Imagine being invited to your own replacement." "Do you suppose she'll congratulate them?" "She ought to. It's not every day your husband finds someone better." Augusta turns toward the front row, her expression sharp with disapproval. "Lady Belvoir, I sincerely hope you won't embarrass us today. Celestine has been remarkably gracious about your continued position in this family." Celestine laughs softly, tightening her hold on Alfred's arm. "Oh, Augusta, please. Don't scold her. It must be dreadfully humiliating to watch another woman marry your husband." Her smile widens. "Especially when everyone seems so delighted." Alfred's jaw tightens. "Celestine." She looks up at him innocently. "What, darling? I'm only being sympathetic." He exhales, then presses a kiss to her forehead. "I know, sweetheart." Bertie chuckles. "Well, that's settled. The first wife gets sympathy. The second gets the husband." Laughter ripples through the ballroom. Wilfrid strikes his cane against the marble floor. "Enough. We have a ceremony to complete." The officiant clears his throat. "Lord Alfred Alphonse Belvoir, do you accept Lady Celestine Costaigne as your lawful wife?" Alfred looks directly at Celestine. "I do." Applause erupts. Celestine's smile is triumphant. Then Augusta rises. "One final matter." The orchestra falls silent. She turns toward the front row. "It would be most fitting for Alfred's first wife to offer her congratulations." Isadora covers her mouth, suppressing another laugh. Celestine tilts her head. "Oh, how lovely. I'd adore her blessing." Alfred finally turns his attention toward you. His steel-grey eyes narrow. "Well?" He extends one hand toward Celestine, drawing his new bride closer. "Don't make this difficult." His voice hardens. "Stand up and congratulate my wife." Bertie leans toward Jolyon, barely bothering to whisper. "Which wife?" Jolyon's mouth twitches. "The one he actually chose." The laughter starts again. Six hundred faces turn toward the front row. Celestine's diamond wedding ring flashes beneath the chandeliers. Alfred's expression turns impatient. "You. I won't ask twice."