Page 74 of The Wrong Husband

We danced all night.

Damian had been with me the entire time and it felt so good to finally be seen by someone—and not just some random person but the man I was in love with, my husband.

The gala was held at the Archer Estate, a sprawling mansion turned event venue, complete with grand ballrooms, art-filled corridors, and beautifully manicured gardens. The main hall, where the gala was being held, was breathtaking. With it high ceilings and crystal chandeliers it looked like something out of a movie set. The marble floors gleamed, and the soft hum of conversation and laughter filled the air, punctuated by the clinking of champagne glasses.

I'd never been here before. I had not been invited to the Sunday family lunches because my parents and sister were still considered family, while I was not. I wasn't surprised. After all, the first time I officially met Marcela as her daughter-in-law, she'd asked me to sign an NDA, a post-nuptial agreement, and undated divorce papers.

But I refused to let that interfere with my mood.

These past months were the happiest of my life. Hands down. I couldn't stop smiling. My art was better than ever. Those who say good art comes from pain have no clue; because great art comes from joy. I was almost done with my contract at the museum and the director was ready to sign me up for another three months.

Damian kept saying I should stop working and just focus on painting so I could get my collection ready. I knew he wanted to help me take my work to galleries and people would listen to Damian Archer. I was uneasy. I knew how the game worked and networking was important in the art business. You had to know someone who knew someone to get your work in front of the right people. Damian knew everyone in the art world—from artists to gallery owners to insurance companies. In fact, he was one of the right people.

While Damian went to find a drink, I sat down at our table and looked at the beautifully dressed people mingling and having fun. Just as I was.

"Emilia," I heard my father's voice and kept a smile plastered on my face. No way was he going to make me feel bad tonight. This was the best day of my life. My husband had danced with me. He had told me I was beautiful and amazing. He had looked at me with, dare I say, love.

"Daddy," I acknowledged.

He sat next to me. "How are things?

My father was never in our lives—neither Bianca's nor mine. He was rooted in the construct that the mother raised the children. Maeve was close to Bianca. I had been a surprise baby—the one no one wanted. Until now!

"Good. And you?"

Daddy was a handsome man. He was now in his late fifties and looked just as imposing as he always had. Bianca had taken after our mother who was incredibly gorgeous. The three of them looked like they were a family—while I looked like the baby who had been swapped at the hospital.

"We need to talk," he began.

I wished Damian would get here and soon because I didn't want my father to ruin my evening.

"About?" I asked even though I knew.

"Your marriage."

"Right. Well, let me get Damian and we can talk." Since he's married to me.

"Why don't you come along with me—there's a living room where we can have some privacy."

I looked around and finally zeroed in on Damian, who was talking to Duncan with a glass of champagne in each hand.

"Emilia?"

"Yes."

I rose but opened the Chanel bag I had worn and texted Damian: Dad is taking me somewhere for a conversation.

I hoped that would be enough to get him moving.

Since my father rushed me, I was unable to see if Damian even got the message. I hated that I wanted him with me, hated that I had to do this at all. Why couldn't my parents love me?

I knew exactly how the conversation would go. They would accuse me of stealing Damian and insist that I return him to my sister, as if he were a toy and we were five years old.

My father led me into a beautifully appointed living room. The space screamed Archer elegance, with its rich mahogany furniture, plush velvet upholstery, and a grand fireplace with an ornate mantel. The walls were lined with carefully curated art. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the room.

Waiting for me were my mother, Maeve, my sister, Bianca, and my mother-in-law, Marcela. The air was thick with tension.

This was an ambush.