Chapter 2

Eliza Moran

Kenzie's access mattered more than mine. Kenzie, not me. The thought echoed in the empty lobby. My chest tightened. My own husband locked me out of my home for his assistant.

I felt worthless, like a ghost in my own life. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to confront him. But I swallowed the urge. What was the point? He'd made his choice. My silence felt like surrender.

What was I to him? The answer chilled me: an afterthought, an inconvenience.

Our apartment was no longer mine. Kenzie held literal and figurative keys to my life, using "work" as cover for her takeover. How had I missed it? How had I been so blind?

I ended the call. My hand went limp. I walked into the cool Boston night, needing shelter.

I found a cheap motel near campus-faded carpet, faint disinfectant smell. The room's cost pinched my shrinking savings. I realized then how fully dependent I'd become.

My bank account, once healthy from my curator career, had dwindled to a trickle. Cohen said household expenses tied to his grant would be "more efficiently managed by the university's admin team." He claimed they were organized and fiscally sharp.

Slowly, institutional accounts covered everything: groceries, supplies, even my toiletries. Meticulous lists arrived, marked "cost-effective." My allowance, once enough to keep my independence, shrank to a fixed small sum-barely enough for basics.

"The admin team stretches every dollar," Cohen would say, ignoring my discomfort. "They stay on top of things. It makes sense with my workload."

Kenzie always framed her involvement as professional duty, supporting Cohen and keeping our household running. Her voice was sweet, her logic airtight, leaving no room to argue.

I nodded and accepted it. I'd grown used to the quiet erosion of my freedom.

That night in the motel, I remembered our anniversary dinner months earlier. I'd cooked his favorite meal, lit candles, worn the silk dress he liked. I wanted to reconnect, to reclaim a moment of intimacy.

His hand was inches from mine when his phone lit up. He hesitated, then glanced at the screen.

"I have to go," he said, pushing back his chair. "Cell cultures can't wait. We lose months of data if they're contaminated."

"On our anniversary?"

He paused at the door, offering a ghost of an apology. "Science doesn't wait for anniversaries, Eliza."

The door clicked shut. Candles flickered. I sat alone, listening to the elevator drop. Kenzie would be waiting in the lab across the river-and she'd known he was coming.

The steak congealed on my plate. I didn't bother covering it.