Chapter 3

In the weeks that followed, Amelia began the quiet work of dismantling the financial architecture of her marriage. She systematically liquidated the assets Eleanor had discreetly willed to her, a portfolio kept separate from the primary Caldwell trusts.

A small collection of stocks, a parure of antique jewelry, a minor Impressionist drawing.

Eleanor, it appeared, had possessed the foresight to furnish her with a means of escape.

Amelia converted every asset into liquid currency, depositing the sums into a new account established under her maiden name.

She began researching design institutes in New York, a long-dormant ambition resurfacing with an astonishing and welcome clarity.

Independence. It had become a tangible, attainable objective.

One evening, requiring the retrieval of certain personal documents, Amelia returned to the sterile, opulent house she had once shared with Ethan.

She admitted herself with her old key. The air within was still and heavy, freighted with the scent of beeswax and the dust of settled arguments.

As she moved towards the study, she detected sounds from the master bedroom.

A low murmur of voices, then a soft laugh. Jessica's laugh.

Amelia froze, not with a clench of the heart, but with a familiar, acidic lurch in the pit of her stomach.

She pushed open the bedroom door.

Ethan and Jessica were on the bed, entwined, a bottle of champagne cooling in a silver bucket on the nightstand. They were in the midst of a kiss, oblivious to her presence.

A raw, involuntary sound of revulsion escaped Amelia's lips.

They broke apart, Ethan's face flushing a dull red, Jessica momentarily discomposed before her expression hardened into a triumphant smirk.

"Well, well," Jessica purred, drawing the silk sheet higher. "Behold what the cat has dragged in. Have you misplaced something, Amelia?"

Ethan rose, hastily donning a dressing gown. "Amelia! What in God's name are you doing here? This is still my house."

His voice was harsh, defensive.

"Our house, Ethan," Amelia corrected, her voice trembling despite her resolve. "At least, until the decree is final. And this... this is a sordid spectacle."

The sight of them, so comfortable, so possessive, in the bed she had once regarded as the symbol of her marital hopes, was a visceral affront.

Ethan scoffed. "Sordid? Do not play the hypocrite, Amelia. This is the very scene you once dreamt of, is it not? Me, in your bed."

His words were a deliberate, cruel barb, referencing the early, hopeful days of their union, her naive attempts at intimacy, his cold, methodical rejections.

The taunt, intended to shatter her, instead forged something within Amelia into a thing of immutable strength.

A profound, irrevocable certainty.

"Yes, Ethan," she said, her voice suddenly clear, stripped of any tremor. "I did dream of it. I was a fool. A blind and credulous fool."

She looked him directly in the eye, her gaze unwavering.

"But I swear to you now, Ethan Caldwell, on the memory of my mother, on the whole of my future, I would sooner be rendered to dust and scattered on a barren field than to entertain, for even the span of a single breath, the phantom of what I once felt for you."

Her voice resonated with a conviction that was absolute.

Ethan stared at her, his pupils dilating. For the first time since she had known him, the intricate machinery of his self-possession seemed to falter; a flicker, a momentary lapse in the current that animated his arrogance.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He looked... adrift.

Jessica, sensing a perilous shift in the dynamics, immediately intervened.

"Ethan, darling," she cooed, her voice a careful blend of concern and distress. "Pay her no mind. She is merely attempting to wound you. Come back to bed."

She reached for his hand, her eyes flicking towards Amelia with undisguised venom.

Ethan allowed himself to be drawn away, his gaze still fixed on Amelia, a dawning apprehension in his expression.

He turned away, but the image of Amelia's resolute face, the chilling echo of her oath, remained imprinted on his mind.

As Ethan attended to Jessica, fussing over her feigned agitation, he nicked his finger on the sharp rim of the champagne flute he was refilling.

A single drop of blood welled up.

He stared at it, unseeing, his mind replaying Amelia's words. He watched the single bead of crimson well upon his skin, a stark, unwelcome punctuation to the echo of her oath.

I would sooner be rendered to dust...

The vehemence, the finality... it troubled him more than he would ever concede.

He shook his head, dismissing it. She was always given to dramatic pronouncements. This was merely a new, more potent performance.

But the disquiet remained, a knot of ice in his gut.