Chapter 3

I gently disentangled myself from Mrs. Oneill' s embrace, my eyes fixed on Chrissy. The silk robe, my robe, swayed with her movements. I felt a cold anger building inside me, but I forced it down. I was here for Mrs. Oneill, not for a confrontation with Chrissy. Not yet.

"I' m here to help Mrs. Oneill with her doctor' s appointment," I stated, my voice calm, flat. "Jarvis and I will be taking her."

Mrs. Oneill clutched my hand. "Yes, dear. This girl... she says she lives here now. She keeps trying to tell me what to do. Says I shouldn' t wear my own clothes." She gestured vaguely towards Chrissy, her brow furrowed in confusion. "She' s not family, is she?"

My heart ached for her. This sweet woman, who had always welcomed me into her home, treated me with genuine affection. I remembered her bustling around the kitchen, teaching me her recipes, especially her famous chicken noodle soup. It was the taste of home, of comfort.

And now, the house still smelled vaguely of that soup, a ghost of comfort in a home filled with betrayal.

My gaze drifted to the corner of the living room, where a dusty bass guitar case leaned against the wall. Not my Fender, but an old, battered stand-up bass, a relic from my college days. I remembered the thrill of the stage, the pulse of the music flowing through me, my fingers flying across the strings.

Jarvis had been my biggest fan back then. He' d come to every gig, shouting my name, his eyes full of admiration. "You' re going to be famous, Carmel," he' d told me, his arm around my waist, pulling me close after a particularly wild set. "A rock star. And I' ll be right here, cheering you on."

His words, once a promise, now felt like a cruel joke.

Then my father had gotten sick. The brilliant Chief of Surgery, taken down by a sudden, aggressive illness. On his deathbed, he' d clasped Jarvis' s hand, his voice weak. "Take care of my girl, Jarvis. She' s too good for this world." Jarvis had promised, his eyes filled with what I' d believed was genuine sorrow and commitment.

His career, fueled by my father' s connections and his own relentless ambition, had skyrocketed after that. He became the golden boy, the surgeon with the Midas touch. And I? I' d given up the bass, given up the smoky bars and late-night jams. I' d become the perfect surgeon' s wife, managing our sprawling home, hosting elegant dinners, maintaining his pristine image. I' d traded my dreams for his, believing they were our dreams.

When my father died, my world had collapsed. Jarvis, ever the strong one, had held me. "I' ll take care of everything, Carmel. You just lean on me. Forever."

Forever. What a joke.

I' d found the nanny cam footage by accident. An alert on my phone, a notification I usually ignored. But that night, something had made me click. And there it was. Not Gracie struggling with her homework, but Chrissy, draped across Jarvis' s lap, their lips locked. The soft moans, the whispered endearments. My world had fractured all over again.

I remembered the cold rage that had consumed me. I' d stormed into his study, the laptop still open, the damning evidence still on the screen.

"What is this, Jarvis?" My voice had been a raw, guttural sound I barely recognized.

He' d looked up, his expression a mixture of guilt and annoyance. "Carmel! What are you doing? Snooping?"

"Snooping?" I' d shrieked, the veneer of calm shattering. "This is my home! My marriage! And this... this is a betrayal!"

He' d stood, towering over me. Chrissy, a shadow behind him, cowered. "Don' t be hysterical, Carmel. It' s not what you think."

"Not what I think?" I' d lunged at him, my hands flying, desperate to erase the image from my mind. He' d caught my wrists, his grip like iron. Then, he' d slapped me. Hard. My head snapped back, the sharp pain a shocking echo of the deeper wound.

"You' re humiliating me!" he' d hissed, his eyes burning with a cold fury I' d never seen directed at me. He' d pushed me away, towards the door. Chrissy, whimpering, nestled into his side. He stroked her hair, his gaze still fixed on me, devoid of warmth.

I' d stumbled out, leaving them in the opulent study, their secret now painfully exposed. The other staff, the housekeepers, the cooks, they must have known. Their averted gazes, their hushed whispers, suddenly made sense. I was the last to know, the fool.

I' d collapsed in the snow-covered garden, the biting cold a strange comfort against the burning humiliation. Tears froze on my cheeks. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. "He never loved you, you cold bitch. He told me you were just a trophy. I' m giving him what you never could." Chrissy.

A fresh wave of nausea had hit me. I' d wanted to scream, to lash out. I' d wanted to expose them, to tear down his carefully constructed facade. But my father' s words echoed in my mind: "Always maintain your dignity, Carmel."

So, I had tried. I' d contacted a lawyer, gathered what evidence I could. But Jarvis, with his power and his connections, was always one step ahead. He' d threatened to cut off my access to Mrs. Oneill, to fight for full custody of Gracie, to bleed me dry financially. He' d made it clear I was nothing without him.

In my despair, I' d considered going public, exposing his infidelity. But he' d warned me. "You' ll ruin both our reputations, Carmel. Think of Gracie. Think of Mom."

His words, manipulative as they were, had worked. I' d hesitated. I'd started to lose myself, to believe his gaslighting. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I was too cold, too unfeeling. I' d sunk into a deep depression, neglecting myself, neglecting everything. Gracie started avoiding me, sensing the tension, the sadness that clung to me like a shroud.

Then, one sleepless night, sitting in the dark, staring at the ceiling, a thought had pierced through the fog of despair. I remembered an old, forgotten backup drive from Jarvis's study. I'd found it while looking for Gracie's old photo albums. Inside, not pictures, but a hidden folder. Financial documents. Emails. A detailed plan. His plan to leave me with nothing, to ensure I remained dependent on him after the divorce. A final, cruel twist of the knife.

My heart had gone numb. He wasn' t just unfaithful; he was malicious. He wasn' t just bored; he was plotting my destruction. That moment, seeing the cold, calculated betrayal laid out in black and white, had stripped away the last vestiges of my love, my hope, my doubt. It was a cold, hard awakening.