His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 03

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 03

A few days later, the gold-embossed email invitation to Marin County’s annual wildfire relief charity gala landed in my inbox.

As a donor, this was routine. But this year, Ethan’s name was displayed prominently on the host list, where he would be honored as a “community hero.”

I stared at his name on the screen, feeling nothing. This was just one final, mechanical confirmation.

I sent him a text: *Do you need a date for Friday’s gala?*

It was my last attempt to preserve a shred of dignity for this marriage.

The phone screen went dark. No reply. I picked it up and called him.

The phone rang for a long time before he finally answered. In the background, I could hear Lena’s bright laughter and the rustle of fabric.

“What is it? I’m busy.” Ethan’s voice was impatient, as if I’d interrupted something important.

“I’m helping him pick out his gala suit, Nora!” Lena’s coy voice cut in, too close to the receiver. “What do you think of this emerald tie?”

On the other end, Ethan seemed to murmur something to her, and the rustling and laughter moved farther away.

“Nora, I’ll talk to you later.” He lowered his voice, his tone a perfunctory attempt at appeasement.

Then he hung up.

A minute later, my phone lit up with a new message.

From Ethan.

Got it.

I turned off my phone, got up, and walked into the closet to choose the plainest black dress I owned.

On Friday night, I drove alone to Cavallo Point in Sausalito. The ballroom was teeming with Bay Area high society, chandeliers glittering overhead, tiny beads of condensation clinging to champagne flutes.

I checked in at the reception desk, and a server handed me a beautifully produced program.

The cover showed the silhouette of Mount Tamalpais against a sunset. I opened it to the first page: the guest-of-honor introduction.

At the very top were two smiling faces. One was Ethan. The other was Lena.

Beneath their photos was a line of bold black text: Community Hero and Survivor Representative: Ethan Ward & Lena Price.

My fingers stopped on that line. My name, Nora Ellis, his wife, didn’t appear anywhere in the booklet.

I closed the program and followed the seating card to my place.

It was in the farthest corner of the ballroom, at a round table squeezed between ten ordinary donors and the kitchen exit.

At the main table, Ethan was thoughtfully pulling out a chair for Lena, who wore a stunning emerald gown. She sat down beside him like a proud peacock, calmly accepting the greetings and applause from all sides.

I had become the most ironic ghost at the gala.

I sat in the corner, mechanically eating food I couldn’t taste. I watched Lena cling to Ethan’s arm all night, moving among the guests as if she were the hostess. Whenever a handsome single man tried to speak to her, she would shyly hide behind Ethan. And Ethan would smile as he shielded her, politely blocking any unwanted social contact with an air that said, *She is mine.*

He had built an impenetrable fortress around her.

During intermission, I carried my wineglass through the crowd and stepped out onto the terrace. Ethan was there, taking a work call.

When he saw me, he hurriedly ended the conversation.

“Why are you out here alone?” He frowned, as if blaming me for not fitting in.

“The program says ‘Ethan Ward & Lena Price,’” I stated calmly, my voice flat. “Should I feel honored that my husband and a young girl have become tonight’s moral compass?”

“Nora, don’t be like this.” That familiar, disappointed expression returned. “This is for Lena. She needs a positive public image to escape the ‘victim’ label. It’s good for her recovery.”

“So you erased me?”

“What does this have to do with you?” His patience evaporated, his voice rising before he could stop it. “I’m her guardian! On an occasion like this, I should be by her side, supporting her. This is my responsibility, Nora. Why do you always have to be so narrow-minded?”

Once again, he used that grand word, *responsibility*, to paint all my feelings as petty and immature.

I looked at his handsome, cold face and suddenly felt that arguing was pointless.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand. He just didn’t care.

I said nothing more and turned back into the ballroom.

The climax of the evening was an on-stage interview with Ethan and Lena, where they would share their moving story “of hope and rebirth.”

Under the spotlight, Lena spoke tearfully about her desperation during the wildfire and how Ethan’s “rescue” had given her a new life. Ethan gazed at her, his expression gentle, handing her tissues from time to time like a guardian angel.

The room erupted in thunderous applause.

I sat alone in my corner, feeling the gazes from the surrounding tables, a mixture of sympathy and gossip. The looks were like tiny needles pricking my skin. They didn’t hurt, but their sheer number made it hard to breathe.

The feeling was all too familiar.

It was the same cold that had nearly swallowed me in the smoke three years ago, now drawn out, bit by bit.