Two years after my best friend stole my fiancé, she found me at our industry gala, looked me over in one slow sweep, and smiled like pity was a form of grace. “Poor Claire,” she said. “Still climbing at 38? Ben and I are finally buying in the Hamptons.” I smiled, turned slightly toward the man beside me, and said, “Have you met my husband?” Her champagne glass trembled. Ben recognized him first. She understood what that meant a second later.
The first thing Vanessa said to me that night was not hello. It was, “Claire, honey, you’re still at it? Still climbing the ladder at thirty-eight?” She let her gaze sweep over the ballroom, over the waiters in white jackets balancing trays of champagne, over the gold-lit columns and floral arrangements and the glossy…