On Independence Day, all of Newport society was waiting to laugh at one person. Me. This year, would my husband, Nathaniel Hastings, pin the Hastings signal flag brooch—the symbol of his family’s honor—on my dress? The Hastings family had an unwritten rule: a wife of five years was only truly accepted after she stood with her husband at the bow of their yacht on Independence Day for the society pages. For the past four years, he had given that honor to other women. I had become Newport’s biggest joke, Mrs. Hastings in name only. This year, the woman he chose was an influencer named Sloane. She hooked her arm through Nathaniel’s and made a show of waving a gold-edged Commodore’s Table place card in front of me, a challenge glinting in her eyes. Everyone around us was waiting. Waiting for me to fall apart like I had the past four years, to rush over and rip her dress to shreds. But I only glanced at the card and said softly, “Congratulations.” Natha......
