The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Chapter 1

Not everyone is born with a golden name. My mother always told me that I was a blessed child; I would have more opportunities than she ever had. When I was a girl, she told me that the more I worked for myself, the less I would have to labor for anyone else. I wouldn't have to be just a pretty face like she was. I could be more than a trophy if I played my cards right.

Jay Gatsby was a wonderful man but beneath me, an encumbrance on everything that I had inherited and would achieve. Years later, when he would amass an even greater estate than my family's own, he would come to represent everything that we of East Egg scorned. He flashed gaudy decor and a lack of aristocratic etiquette. He was beautiful.

My Jay Gatsby was indeed a beautiful man, but, for all his riches, would never be enough.

It was a day of questionable weather when my second cousin Nick called. It had been a few years since I had hung out with my family from the west, so I was more than happy to arrange a dinner. Tom would be happy: he was particularly content in the company of fellow elitists- Yale graduates. I arranged our meeting for Le Cirque, a classy place of fine dining that had provided me with many business luncheons and satisfied clients. As I made my plans, I figured that Nick could use a female companion as well. Jordan, an ambitious friend of mine who made up for her cynicism with her quick wits, agreed with a brief "k." in text.

My cousin Nick was from the part of the west that I had left behind in order to pursue greater things. While I could sit on our family fortunes as it dwindled into the increasing pool of inheritors, I instead carried my mother's advice in my heart and found my livelihood in the sleepless city. Quiet and honest, Nick was a wallflower.

Over artichoke risotto and lobster bisque, Tom's phone rang, and he answered it with the utmost urgency. Business, any good wife would assume, as I did. When the attendants whisked away the barely touched appetizers and daintily placed the pan seared salmon in front of an empty seat, I left the table to search for my husband, giving the sincerest apologies to my cousin and Jordan. They could keep each other company. Meanwhile, I found Tom outside the occupied men's room, phone cradled against his cheek.

I was standing behind him, waiting for the right moment to inform him that the entrees had arrived. Then I watched him say to the phone, "Don't worry about him, you've got me. I've gotta go, Daisy's waiting. I know, I know. I'll see you for dinner on Saturday."

Saturday? He was going to be away on a business trip this weekend, a bimonthly occurrence. The words were spoken like a secret, but when he hung up and turned to glance back the table, he found me. For a brief moment, a strange expression passed over his face, but it disappeared in an instant.

"Who was that?" I asked, trying to keep a clear mind. Did I mishear what I perceived to be affection in his voice? My stomach began to knot.

Tom stared at me like I was crazy. "Neal from work," he said after a moment. "Let's get back to dinner."

"Okay," I said at last, and we resumed dinner without referencing the phone call.

That call was the first of many. Our house phone started receiving several from a hidden number, but whenever I picked up, the caller would hang up. These calls clearly began to agitate Tom, but when I suggested looking into blocking the number, he waved the idea away.

I met her a few weeks after our dinner at Le Cirque. During dinner, the phone rang, and as had become custom, Tom and I ignored it. A few seconds after it stopped ringing, the bell rang.

"I'll get it," Tom said immediately, but I stood up.

"I'm closer to the door."

I opened the door to a woman with auburn curls, a dress with a plunging neckline, and an iPhone in one hand. She seemed shocked to see me, but her surprise quickly turned into one of disgust. Immediately I felt like my clothing choices were being scrutinized, which wasn't really fair considering that I hadn't even changed out of my work clothes.

"Yes? How may I help you?" I asked slowly, unsure of who this woman was.

Without an invitation, she stepped in, and completely ignored the question. "TOM!" She screeched, "I know you're here!"

"Excuse me-" I began, but she whirled towards me, eyes ablaze.

"Shut up!" She said, and as she spoke, Tom appeared at the door to the dining hall, looking as if all hell was about to be raised.

Not one to be pushed around in my own house, I considered calling the cops. "I don't know who you are, but please leave, or I'll-"

"You're letting her threaten me, Tom? Is this the woman that you're so committed to staying married to? I don't even see how she's worth it." The woman stalked up to Tom, somehow looking frightening despite their significant height difference. "You can't keep pushing me to the sidelines!" The final word sounded closer to a shriek.

"Tom," I looked at him, and he met my gaze. "Who is she?"

Whirling around towards me, the woman looked ready to kill. "Who am I? I'm the one he loves! You're what's keeping us apart. He doesn't even like it when I say your name."

Suddenly Tom moved. He crossed his arms. "Myrtle, go. It's dinnertime."

A wave of nausea passed over me. "Tom?"

"It's too late, Tom! I can say her name if I want to, because sooner or later, you'll have to choose. I would gladly leave George for you! Do you even understand what kind of life I'm living now? He's been outsourced and we're going to end up homeless! You have to pick now. Me, or Daisy? Me, or Daisy? ME OR DAI-"

In one swift movement, Tom's fist slammed into the woman's face with a loud crack.

After Myrtle left, crying but still professing her love, I packed our untouched dinner into the fridge. I hadn't eaten since my lunch break seven hours ago, but I was in no mood. As Tom placed the last of the plates in the sink, I sat down at the mahogany table we had bought together five years ago, right after our marriage. Tom joined me a moment later, an unreadable expression on his face. It disturbed me that he didn't seem to look guilty, just somewhat uncomfortable.

"Myrtle Wilson is my mistress." The words were spoken so casually, it was inappropriate.

I didn't know what to say, but shamefully, I started to cry. "No," I spit out, but couldn't compose myself well enough to produce a coherent sentence.

"Daisy, you'll always be my wife," He said, as if I was supposed to settle for that. The lack of apology or promise to stop seeing her spoke more loudly than anything he had said all night.

A surge of anger passed through me. Why would I have to make this choice? I thought about my dearly departed mother and how she would have scorned me for even considering staying. I couldn't just stand by while my husband spent his time in some other woman's bed. I deserved better. As I stared at Tom from across the table, I struggled to imagine a life without him. Could I bear to go to bed every night alone, knowing that in my absence, someone else would be in my place?

I was silent until I heard Pammy begin to cry in the next room. Then, before I could hesitate, I said, "I want a divorce."

Nick referred me to a Dr. Samuel Wheatley, an esteemed divorce lawyer with an established office on Lenox Avenue and a law degree from Harvard. The attorney was a sharp man with a Wall Street haircut that contrasted with his neon orange tie. Over the next month, I would share more dinners with this man than with my soon-to-be-ex-husband. It became clear that I would be getting a good cut of Tom's earnings and properties, especially from child support. My daughter would be making money before she even learned how to talk. That fact comforted me through the few lonely nights spent sleeping in the guest room, before I could move out.

I knew that if I remained under the same roof as him, I would hesitate. I had to break free of the Buchanan name. While Tom was away on Saturday, I buried my anxiety over who he was with and instead set to packing, consolidating the past five years of my life into a few moving vehicles. The closets were emptied, and the shelves looked deserted as photos of my side of the family vanished into a bubble wrap padded box. My grandfather's porcelain teacups and glass figurines disappeared from behind the glass. There would be no traces of me to be found.

As I carefully wrapped my jewelry, I found the small box. It was a deep navy and velvet with a silver trim, and I recognized it immediately. Slowly, I opened it to reveal the rose gold Rolex that Tom had gifted to me on our fifth anniversary. It gleamed, bright and clean, and I immediately felt guilty for how little I had worn the watch. Now, it was meaningless. I closed the box and left it on our- his- bed. I focused on the next items to be put away, blinking away tears.

Jordan appeared at my doorstep not twenty minutes later, sweaty but with a Chai latte in each hand. "I swindled some desperate accountant into buying our drinks," she told me with a smug look of satisfaction, handing me my beverage and seating herself on the lavender Ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"Thanks." I took a sip, thinking about how Tom sometimes brought me Starbucks on the days he came home before me, and quickly redirected my attention to Jordan. "For everything. If I don't leave this place now, I don't know if I ever would."

Shrugging, she turned and began reorienting her earrings in the mirror. "I'll double my wardrobe. Think of payment as me having free reign over borrowing your stuff until you move out." She smiled. "As long as you respect my space when I've got guests over, we'll get along wonderfully as housemates. Hell, maybe I'll even babysit every once in a blue moon."

I smiled weakly at the statement. "Pammy's so used to Tara. It would be good for her to become accustomed to other people."

Jordan cut to it. "And how are you holding up, Daisy?"

At first it was tough to talk about, because sitting there in our bedroom, it was as if Tom could hear every word that I said. I reassured myself that he was at work, spouting small talk at the conference table, and the truth came out more easily.

"She has a husband too," I muttered, feeling no less comforted by the fact that someone else was in my position. "Some software developer that lost his job, so now she's desperate to get out."

Jordan sighed. "Well, what about the settlement?"

I told her about child support and percentages first, which actually was very reassuring. Then the conversation fell away to lighter topics. Jordan rejoiced over the return of a fellow bachelorette at the bar, and explained that the dating scene hadn't changed that much over the past few years. Good men were as rare as ever. To prove her point, she brought up the long-forgotten characters of our younger years.

"Matthew Dabers, a man-child with more hair gel than hygiene- you would've gone home with him if I hadn't told you that he was in the news a few years back for indecent exposure. Then there was Duncan Bough, who tried to win both of us over at the same time with cliché pickup lines he probably read off Buzzfeed." Jordan quipped, counting off on her fingers, "And don't get me started on that Leonard Salzman."

It was almost as if we were in college again, back when I was single and free of marital attachments. Tom had been worth leaving that life behind, but now he was why I was returning to it. There was the sound of a car over gravel, and I knew that Nick had arrived. Faintly, I wondered if our family tie would be worth more to him than his university-old friendship with Tom. Setting aside the small jewelry box, I hurried to the front door and flung it open, embracing my cousin.

"Nick," I greeted him, kissing him on the cheek, and as usual, he politely gave me a peck in return. This time, however, he did the same to Jordan, who smiled at me. At least something substantial came of that dinner, I thought. That would be a conversation for later.

It took less than an hour to consolidate my life into four storage vehicles. As Nick helped load my suitcases into his trunk, I stared at the pristine white front of the Buchanan house- my house, once upon a time. The Japanese maple that I had spent so much time picking out would not be coming with me. I could say my goodbyes to the house in three hours, when I would return to pick up Pammy. Fortunately, Tom was respectful of my wishes to give me space.

I rode with Jordan. She lightly continued the conversation about before, emphasizing her cynical nature regarding the men of the world, but then turned the conversation to my cousin. Nick was worthy of dating her, because unlike most men, Nick regarded carelessness with scorn- in her words. He was honest, which was more than she could say about herself, although her bluntness had to count for something, right? While my love life fell to shambles, I found some comfort in seeing Jordan's turning into something that lasted more than a night. My mind began to drift.

"Hey." We had stopped a red light. Jordan touched my arm gently. "You're better off without Tom. Right now, we're about to begin the longest sleepover ever."

I smiled, wondering how I had allowed my married life to take such precedence over my former social circle. "Thanks."