The Weston circus has come to town and stripped away every ounce of happiness in my life.

Every year, the entire company, all of the heads of departments and board members and partners and vendors descend on Cape Cod for the annual State of the Company meeting.

What they should call it is the “how much power and money do you wield” meeting because it’s basically a dick-measuring contest between stuffy old white men. They bring along their assistants, underlings and most of these people also have their mistress on retainer … which makes for a lot of people invading the wealthy beach towns, hotels, and resorts.

Most years during this week, I escape to Nantucket. Since my architecture firm is a holding of Weston Industries, most employees are either at the meeting or trying to schmooze one of the socialites into a new project with our office. I’d made it clear, in no uncertain terms, to Imogen after the first year of this charade, that I was going to take the week to surf and clear my head.

She’d always obliged, knowing I needed the space from her world at times. That is, until this year.

“We have to look like a united front. We need the stockholders and the board members to see that I am thriving both personally and professionally. It will help ease the transition when I take over the human resources department.”

Imogen is all grace, power, and muted sexuality in a perfectly fitted dark blue dress. She looks like the Princess of New England, with her blood running as royal as the color hugging her curves. That long blond hair is wrapped up into an elegant swirl at the nape of her neck, and it’s hard for me to resist the urge to place my hand on the small of her back to feel the swish of her hips as she moves.

“We don’t need to do anything. You need this. I’m just the puppet, per usual,” I mumble, following her up the cobblestone path that leads to the country club my in-laws belong to.

This luncheon is the kickoff to the week-long conference that Weston is putting on, and I’d rather be eating glass than sitting in the audience as these rich people wax poetic about the hardships of making millions a year.

Imogen turns around, after walking a few steps ahead of me, and frowns. “I’m sorry. I know you hate this week.”

Even if I’m keyed up to a thousand, one look from her and I soften. Will she ever lose that power over me?

I nod, not wanting to act like a sullen teenager any longer. We’re almost at the finish line. After this week, Imogen should move into her position by Thanksgiving, which is in another month or so, and by Christmas I should be signing off on the first draft of our divorce settlement.

That thought both guts me and makes my shoulders feel lighter. For some reason, it feels as if Imogen and I are racing a clock. Will we make a move before time is up, or will it run out, leaving us shattered forever?

As we move into the room, full of suits and their wives, girlfriends, and secretaries, I put my hand on the small of Imogen’s back. I do it without thinking because this is our natural pose at these functions. She’s my wife, and at least I can have these last moments while we’re in public.

The club is in its usual stuffy, old-world state, with classic World War II memorabilia and tapestries adorned with old-time yachts and sailboats. The whole thing feels so upper crust … nothing like the genuine fisherman bars I’ve patronized growing up.

“Theo, Imogen, good to see you.” My mother-in-law is the first to intercept us, and I groan internally.

“Mother.” Imogen double air kisses her politely.

The Weston matriarch turns to me and I do the same, her perfume stench invading my nose. “Good to see you.”

She nods curtly and talks to me under her breath. “You two need to put on the perfect show.”

It’s a reminder that I am a monkey on display here, and I bristle at her marching orders.

But then Imogen’s hand reaches around her back to take mine, and her fingers lace through my fingers. “Theo and I were just making our way to the bar.”

These functions were, blessedly, fueled by alcohol. You weren’t a New England social climber if you weren’t steadily drunk at each and every event.

“Thank you.” I squeeze her hand, our palms connecting. “You know your mother.”

“I do. Remember that time you cursed in front of her at the charity polo match? I thought she was going to have a stroke.” Imogen chuckles quietly.

The smile on her face is genuine, no pain or memories haunting her expression. It makes me do stupid things, like maneuvering to stand in front of her and brushing a piece of sandy-colored hair out of her face.

My fingers spark along her cheekbone, and I want to say something, but I don’t have the right words. This game we’re playing … it’s fucking with my head. We’re together in public and shut ourselves up in our respective rooms when the eyes aren’t prying. I love her, but I’m so fucking angry that she chose to give up on us. It makes me want to give up on us, too. But at the same time, she is the other half of my soul.

“You look gorgeous today.” I say what is honestly on my mind. “Haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time.”

Maybe giving up on us has been good for her.

“Theo …” I’m not sure if her name on my lips is a warning, or if it’s a question.

“Do you want a glass of pinot, or a gin and tonic?” I back away, my heart racing, trying to smooth the moment over by asking her to pick between her two favorite drinks.

“I’m okay with just a water and lime … want to keep my wits about me today.”

I study her, never knowing Imogen to turn down a cocktail at an event like this luncheon, but nod as we finally make it to the bar, and I place our orders.

Twenty-five minutes later, after working the room and meeting out-of-town partners galore, Imogen and I are seated at our table. Her brothers, Alfie and Winston, their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Weston (I’ve never thought of them as Mom and Dad, not even for a second), and two other couples who I assume are important heads of the company, sit around the perfectly set table. There are about one too many forks for me, and I’m on my third whiskey ginger to numb the annoyance sparking in my blood.

The presentation begins as soon as the salad course is placed in front of us, all at the same time by white-gloved servers. I have to bite my lip as they do this, because once, Imogen told me that she always thought of the “Be Our Guest” scene in Beauty and the Beast whenever this happened.

I look over to see her biting her lip too. Our eyes connect, the inside joke passing between us.

Somewhere over the course of the next hour, there is something said about honoring the women of Weston, those females who work hard for the company. I have a feeling this is some ploy by Morgan Weston himself to highlight his daughter and begin laying the groundwork for her promotion.

A bouquet of flowers is given to me to then present to my wife, and everyone claps as I kiss her cheek and lay the crinkling paper in her arms.

Once the applause has died down, and people begin cutting into their fresh catch of the day, my wife looks down at the flowers.

“I always think about white roses at a funeral. White roses mean someone has died,” Imogen murmurs to herself.

Her green eyes look up into mine, and I want to erase every disaster that has happened to us. But I can’t. So I reply with the only truth I know.

“Haven’t we?”