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Our New Year’s Toast Ended When My Husband Thanked the Wrong Woman
My name is Elise Rowan, and suddenly the life I built was exposed under bright lights. If you’ve ever felt betrayal land without warning, this story is for you. Tell me where you’re watching from and hit subscribe, because what happened next changed everything.
The room was loud in that polished, expensive way—glass clinking, laughter pitched just high enough to sound successful. A band in the corner played something familiar and sleek, the kind of music that makes strangers sway like they belong to each other. The city glowed behind the windows like it was applauding us.
I stood near the edge of the rooftop, my champagne untouched, my hand resting lightly on my daughter’s shoulder as she leaned against me, bored and blinking at the lights. Her dress was velvet, deep green, the kind of color that makes a child look older in photos. She kept tugging at the sleeve because she hated anything that felt tight.
“Can we go yet?” she whispered.
“In a little,” I murmured, smoothing her hair.
My husband took the microphone.
That alone wasn’t unusual. He liked speeches. He liked being seen as the man who built things. He liked being the center of rooms where people had invested their trust in him and then smiled like that trust was his birthright.
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