The woman who stood by the door could have graced the cover of Vogue, with her porcelain skin and high cheekbones finely dusted in understated gold, full lips the colour of ripe berries even in the diffused light of the chandeliers above, and obsidian hair cascaded down her slender back. Yet there was something shy about the eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly dancing to the Waltz of The Flowers playing in the background.
He glanced around, taking in the hall which reflected her elegant classic taste. The bespoke sofas of hardwood and creamy velvet were interspersed with sleek mahogany coffee tables bearing now empty bone china cups with antique silver spoons. In one corner stood the grand piano, her most prized possession, where she had captivated the guests just a while back. He recalled the applause and compliments that had been showered upon her. By God, she could host a party. Everything had been perfect.
The door shut and as the locks fell into place he was pulled out of his reverie. He looked back at her, never ceasing to be astonished at the ease with which she could put up and drop down the façade. Cold grey eyes bore down at him, reminding him that it was time to keep up his end of the deal.
He nodded briefly. Then he walked towards the study to sign the divorce papers.