Chapter 2

The world outside the gallery was a blur of flashing lights and shouting voices. My ears rang with the echo of Conor's roar, the one meant for Hillery, the one I'd never heard directed at me. My heart felt like a crumpled piece of paper, tossed aside. That night, I unlocked the digital vault of my husband's life, a place I rarely dared to venture. I pulled up every article, every archived interview, every scrap of information on Hillery Hudson. The truth, when it stared back at me from the glowing screen, was a cold, hard slap to the face.

She wasn't just his adopted sister. She was his obsession. The articles painted a picture of a volatile, codependent relationship, hushed up by the formidable Hudson family for years. Elsworth Hudson, the patriarch, had apparently been desperate to separate them, to maintain the family's pristine image. Hillery had been "sent abroad" not for self-discovery, but as a forced exile, a desperate attempt to sever a bond deemed scandalous.

But Hillery, the manipulative little viper, had found a way back. She' d leveraged a minor scandal of her own, a fabricated threat of public exposure, to force her grandfather's hand. He'd agreed to her return, but on strict conditions: she had to present a respectable façade, find a "suitable" career, and, most importantly, Conor had to marry. Not her, but someone else. Someone to be a shield, a decoy. Someone like me.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. I wasn' t enough. I was a convenience. A tactical maneuver. Every kind word, every patient glance, every gentle touch from Conor was merely a performance, a carefully orchestrated act to pacify his grandfather and pave the way for Hillery's return. My optimism, my belief in finding acceptance, had been nothing more than a blindfold.

The shame was scorching, the betrayal a bitter taste in my mouth. I, Jacey Hamilton, the woman who craved acceptance, had been utterly and completely used. I was a prop in someone else' s twisted love story. The quiet dread I' d felt earlier solidified into a crushing certainty.

A sleek black car, one of Conor' s security vehicles, pulled up to the curb. The driver, a polite, burly man named Gus, started to open the back door. "Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Hudson asked me to take you home."

I shook my head, avoiding his gaze. "No, thank you, Gus. I'll walk." I couldn't bear to be confined, not now. The thought of being trapped in a moving vehicle, even a luxurious one, sent a fresh wave of panic through me. The claustrophobia, a demon I often kept at bay, clawed at my throat.

He looked surprised, but merely nodded. "As you wish, Mrs. Hudson. I'll follow at a respectful distance."

I started walking, my injured ankle protesting with every step. The cool night air did little to soothe the inferno raging inside me. I just needed to move, to outrun the suffocating truth. I walked faster, a desperate, frantic pace. Gus and the black car followed, a silent, looming shadow.

My ankle screamed in agony. I stumbled, my vision blurring, and finally had to stop, leaning heavily against a cold brick wall, gasping for breath. The pain was sharp, but it was a welcome distraction from the agony in my heart.

Gus was by my side in an instant, his face etched with concern. "Mrs. Hudson, you're hurt. Please, let me help you." He gently touched my arm.

Just then, Conor's car, a sleek silver sports model, screeched to a halt beside us. He jumped out, his face still pale, but his eyes now held a familiar, distant concern for me. "Jacey, what happened? Gus, why didn't you stop her?" His voice was strained, but controlled.

"I tried, sir, but Mrs. Hudson insisted," Gus explained, his voice apologetic.

Conor knelt beside me, his touch surprisingly gentle as he examined my ankle. "It looks like a bad sprain. Why didn't you just wait for me, Jacey? I told you not to be rash."

"Why didn't you come, Conor?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, thick with unspoken pain. "You sent Hillery."

He looked away, his jaw tight. "Hillery was upset. She needed me. You were safe with Gus." His tone was dismissive. He didn't even realize the depth of his offense. He didn't realize that my "safety" was meaningless if he wasn't there.

I pulled my hand away from his, the last thread of hope snapping inside me. "I want to be alone, Conor." The words, though quiet, were firm.

He hesitated, then slowly rose. "Jacey, please. Let me at least get you home." His voice was soft, persuasive.

"No," I insisted, pushing myself upright, gritting my teeth against the pain. "I want to walk." I hobbled forward, determined, even as my ankle threatened to give out.

Suddenly, Hillery appeared from his car, looking like a wilting lily, her hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. "Conor, darling, are you really going to leave me in the car alone? After what just happened? I'm simply terrified." Her voice was a fragile tremor, laced with a subtle whine.

Conor turned to her instantly, his concern for me evaporating like morning dew. "Hillery, you should stay in the car. I'll be there in a moment." His tone was gentle, reassuring.

"But it's so dark out here," she whimpered, taking a deliberate step towards him, her eyes darting towards me with a calculating glint. "And Jacey seems quite... emotional. Perhaps it' s best if I stayed by your side, for moral support?" She emphasized "emotional" with a barely perceptible sneer.

I watched her, a bitter laugh bubbling in my throat. She played the damsel perfectly, a master manipulator. She knew exactly what she was doing, how to insert herself, how to make him choose.

I kept walking, my gaze fixed ahead. My silence was my only weapon now.

Hillery let out a small, theatrical gasp. "Oh, Conor, look! My ankle! I think I twisted it getting out of the car. It's just a tiny thing, but it hurts so much." She gave a little hop, wincing dramatically.

Conor was by her side in a flash, his arm around her waist, supporting her. "Hillery, are you alright? Why didn't you say something?" His voice was thick with worry, a stark contrast to his earlier, detached inquiry about my own, much more severe, injury.

"It's nothing, really," she said, leaning heavily into him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. "Just a little bump. But I do feel rather faint now."

Conor looked at me, then back at Hillery. The choice was clear. His face hardened with resolve. "Gus, take Hillery home immediately. I'll stay with Jacey."

"No!" Hillery cried, her voice suddenly strong. "I need you, Conor! I'm scared! What if those people come back? I don't feel safe without you." Her eyes, big and tearful, pleaded with him.

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Hillery, Jacey is hurt. I need to get her home."

"But I'm hurt too!" she wailed, clinging to him tighter. "And I'm fragile! Jacey is so strong, she can take care of herself, can't she?" She looked at me, a triumphant smirk flashing across her face before she quickly masked it with a fresh wave of tears.

Conor's eyes met mine across the distance. A silent plea, a subtle apology, a request for me to understand.

But I understood too much. I understood that my strength, my resilience, was a burden to him, while her manufactured fragility was a siren song. This wasn't a choice; it was his inherent preference, laid bare.

He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "Alright, Hillery. Come on." He gently scooped her into his arms, carrying her easily towards his car. She nestled against his chest, a picture of delicate helplessness, her eyes locking with mine over his shoulder, a look of pure, unadulterated victory.

He settled her carefully into the passenger seat, then briefly turned his head towards me. "Jacey, please call Gus if you need anything. I'll be back as soon as I can." His voice was soft, but distant, already fading.

He drove away, the silver sports car disappearing into the night, Hillery's blonde head visible against his shoulder until the last moment. I stood there, alone, on the cold pavement, the ache in my ankle mirroring the ache in my heart. The black security car, Gus still inside, slowly followed Conor' s vehicle into the distance. He had chosen her. Again. And I was left in the dark, literally and figuratively.

I continued my slow, painful walk home. The car returned, trailing me like a mournful ghost. I saw Hillery's hand reach out from the window, pulling his expensive cashmere scarf around her shoulders, a symbol of warmth, of protection, of possession. My heart twisted. That scarf, the one he usually wore, the one that smelled faintly of his cologne, was now hers. It was a small detail, but it cut deeper than any knife.

I finally made it back to the cold, empty mansion. The silence was deafening. There, on the marble countertop, was a first-aid kit, neatly placed. A note beside it, written in Conor's precise hand: "Clean your wound, Jacey. I'll be back later."

Just then, I heard a faint, high-pitched voice from the tablet on the counter. It was Hillery, on a video call with Conor, her voice a fragile whisper. "Conor, darling, I'm so thirsty. Could you make me some of that special chamomile tea? My throat feels scratchy after all that screaming."

"Of course, Hillery. Anything for you." Conor's voice, usually so clipped and formal, was gentle, indulgent.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. There it was. His true self. The man who would pamper and soothe, the man who would sacrifice anything, even his wife's well-being, for the fragile creature he loved.

I picked up the divorce papers, the ones I had secretly prepared weeks ago. My hand didn't tremble. My heart didn't ache. It was numb. I was tired of being a prop. I was tired of being a shield.

"Conor," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, "it's over." I stared at the phone, knowing he wouldn't hear me, but needing to say it anyway.