Because for the first time in years, she looked like the central fact in the room.
“Carissa,” Damen said.
His voice cracked on the second syllable.
She smiled as if greeting him at a charity event. “Hi, Damen.”
Nikki’s smile vanished.
Jackson’s hand remained at Carissa’s back, not possessive, not theatrical, simply steady. It was the kind of touch that said not alone.
A man in a burgundy blazer with thinning hair stepped forward, looking between Carissa and Nikki as if trying to solve an algebra problem with suddenly unfamiliar numbers.
“Uh,” he said to Damen, laughing uncertainly, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Damen opened his mouth.
Carissa beat him to it.
“Of course,” she said warmly. “I’m Carissa Hale. Damen’s wife.”
The man blinked.
The air changed.
Not dramatically at first. No gasps. No dropped glasses. Just the subtle intake that happens when a room realizes it may have just been standing inside a lie.
Nikki spoke too quickly. “She means—”
“I mean I’ve been legally married to Damen for ten years,” Carissa said. “Nikki is my younger sister.”
The man in burgundy actually looked at Jackson, as if maybe the older brother would save the situation by laughing it off. Jackson did not move.
A woman nearby said, “Wait, what?”
Another voice behind her: “I thought Nikki was the wife.”
“Yes,” Carissa said, still smiling, “Damen has apparently been under that impression socially for quite some time.”
“Carissa,” Damen said through clenched teeth, “stop.”
She turned to him. “Why? You asked for a performance. I’m participating.”
Phones came out.
Not many. A few. Enough.
Damen stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You are humiliating yourself.”
Carissa’s smile thinned. “No,” she said softly. “I’m humiliating you. That’s why you can feel it.”
Nikki found her voice next. “This is not what it looks like.”
Carissa looked at her sister in the emerald dress and felt a calm so complete it almost felt holy.
“Then what does it look like, Nikki?” she asked. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re pretending to be me in public after sleeping with my husband in private.”
That hit harder than any shout could have.
There was an audible reaction then—a collective shift, a breath, a murmur, the strange little current of excitement that runs through groups of adults the moment a social gathering turns into a crime scene without blood.
Damen’s face flamed. “Jesus Christ.”