Chapter 2

Three days later, Charlene walked out of the VIP exit of Mount Sinai Hospital.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled at the curb. The driver scrambled out and pulled the rear door open, bowing his head.

Charlene slid into the leather backseat. Dawson was already sitting there. A sleek laptop rested on his thighs, his fingers typing rapidly.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them in a suffocatingly quiet cabin. Dawson didn't look up. He didn't ask how her head felt. He just kept typing.

Charlene leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. She watched the Manhattan streets blur past. She played her part, keeping her body stiff and her eyes distant, perfecting the alienation of a woman who didn't know the man beside her.

An hour later, the tires crunched over the gravel driveway of the massive French-style estate in Long Island.

The car stopped. The head butler stood at the top of the stone steps, flanked by a perfectly aligned row of maids. They all bowed their heads in unison.

Charlene pushed her door open and stepped out. She stood on the driveway, looking up at the sprawling mansion. For five years, this had been her cage. Now, she pretended it was a foreign fortress.

The butler hurried down the steps. He held out a pair of custom-made slippers embroidered with white roses.

Charlene stared down at the shoes. Angelita's favorite flower. Angelita's favorite style. Her stomach churned, a wave of physical nausea hitting the back of her throat.

She didn't slide her feet into them. Instead, she lifted her right foot and kicked the slippers hard. They skidded across the pavement and landed in the dirt.

Several maids gasped. They exchanged terrified glances. The quiet, obedient Mrs. Conner never raised her voice, let alone threw things.

Dawson snapped his laptop shut and stepped out of the car. He saw the slippers in the dirt. His jaw clenched.

"Put the shoes on, Charlene," he commanded.

Charlene turned her head. She looked at him like he was insane.

"Why would I wear something so hideous?" she asked.

Ignoring his darkening face, she walked past the butler. Her bare feet slapped against the freezing marble floor of the foyer. The sharp cold shot up her spine, a welcome jolt that grounded her in her new reality, cutting through the lingering pain in her head. She marched straight up the grand staircase.

Muscle memory guided her to the master bedroom. She pushed the heavy double doors open.

The room was suffocating. Vintage French furniture, pale beige curtains, muted lighting. Everything was curated to match the delicate, fragile aesthetic of a woman who was already dead.

She walked straight to the massive walk-in closet and yanked the doors open.

Row after row of plain, pastel silk dresses hung perfectly spaced. No reds. No blacks. No vibrant colors.

Her chest he heave. The realization hit her with physical force. She hadn't just been a wife; she had been a life-sized doll dressed up in a dead woman's wardrobe.

A maid crept into the room, her hands shaking as she balanced a silver tray. On it sat a cup of black, sugarless coffee.

"M-Madam," the maid stuttered. "Mr. Conner requires you to drink this every afternoon. To maintain your figure."

Charlene stared at the black liquid. She picked up the porcelain cup, walked into the attached bathroom, and dumped the coffee straight down the sink.

The maid's eyes widened in horror. "Madam! Sir will be furious!"

Charlene turned on the faucet, washing the brown stains down the drain. She looked at the maid through the mirror.

"I don't remember any rules," Charlene said coldly. "Go fetch me a can of ice-cold Coke."

The maid swallowed hard, intimidated by the sheer dominance radiating from Charlene. She nodded frantically and ran out of the room.

Charlene walked back into the bedroom. She grabbed the heavy brass lock on the door and slid the deadbolt into place with a loud click.

She walked over to the vanity table. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal handles of a pair of heavy tailoring scissors.

She stepped back into the closet. She grabbed the sleeve of a thousand-dollar beige silk gown and drove the scissors right through the center of the fabric.

The sound of tearing silk was deafening in the quiet room.

She didn't stop. She slashed through the next dress, and the next. Strips of expensive fabric rained down onto the hardwood floor. Her breathing grew heavy, her heart pounding a frantic, exhilarating rhythm against her ribs.

The brass doorknob rattled violently.

A second later, the sound of a master key sliding into the lock echoed. The deadbolt clicked back.

Dawson shoved the door open. He froze, his eyes locking onto the mountain of shredded silk covering the floor.