My husband burned my dress three hours before the biggest gala of his career.
Then he looked me straight in the face and said,
“Now you have a reason to stay home.”
For a few seconds, I honestly thought I had misunderstood him.
I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, staring at the fireplace.
The dark blue dress I had planned to wear that night was inside it.
Or what remained of it.
One sleeve had already disappeared. The hem was black and curling inward while small orange flames climbed through the fabric. The smell of smoke had filled the room.
Behind me, Adrian was fastening the cuffs of his tuxedo.
Calmly.
As if he had spilled coffee on my dress instead of setting it on fire.
I turned around.
“You did this?”
He barely looked at me.
“Claire, don’t start.”
“Did you burn my dress?”
He finally met my eyes.
“Yes.”
No apology.
No shame.
Just annoyance that I had forced him to say it out loud.
“Why?”
Adrian exhaled and glanced at his watch.
“Because tonight matters.”
I stared at him.
“And I don’t?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“You destroyed the only formal dress I had so I couldn’t go with you.”
