When I opened the drawer of my bedside table, my hand brushed against our wedding invitation.
Julian Cross and Clarissa Vance.
I stared at my name.
Vance.
Not once in three years had Julian allowed me to use it publicly. Not because he was afraid of being overshadowed, he had told me. No, he had called it “protecting our privacy.”
“We should build our life on our own merit,” he had said after our wedding. “I don’t want anyone thinking I married you for your father’s money.”
Back then, I had thought that was noble.
Now I understood.
Julian had not wanted the world to know I was Arthur Vance’s daughter because it gave him power over the story. To his associates, I was simply Clarissa Cross, the plain wife who appeared in no interviews, attended no banquets, held no position, asked no questions.
The woman he could hide.
