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The Plaza gala reeked of lilies and old money, the clinking of teaspoons barely masking the tension. My mother-in-law, Rosalynn, her eyes rimmed red, leaned forward and whispered, "He has another family, Gabrielle." My world shattered. My husband Ethan, the Wall Street titan, had just bought a multi-million dollar Tribeca loft for Molly Clarkson, "The Sharkette." We sat in that gilded cage, our perfect lives exposed as a cruel joke, bonded by a betrayal so deep it stole our breath. They' d spin it as a "nervous breakdown" if we tried to leave, dragging us back into a more pitiful cage. We were trapped, powerless, suffocating in a life that wasn't ours. Only one way to be truly free, Rosalynn declared, looking at me with a new, dangerous fire. "We have to die."