Chapter 3

The shame was a physical weight. I packed my bag in a daze.

There wasn't much to take.

A few sets of plain clothes, bought with the allowance the Hamiltons provided. They felt like a uniform I was finally shedding.

My mother's silver cross necklace. I clutched it, the metal cool against my palm.

A slim volume of Walt Whitman's poetry. Kyler had found it once, flipped through it with a sneer, and tossed it aside. The cover was creased where he'd bent it.

That was it. Four years of my life, reduced to a handful of items.

The head housekeeper, Mrs. Davies, found me by the door. Her face was etched with concern.

"Emily, dear, Mr. Kyler... he doesn't always mean what he says."

Her voice was kind, but it couldn't reach the cold place inside me.

"He's just... thoughtless when he's trying to be clever."

I managed a small, brittle smile. "It's alright, Mrs. Davies."

"If you just wait, talk to him when he's calmed down..."

I shook my head. "Please tell him I've gone to find another place to exert my... calming influence."

The words tasted like ash.

I walked out of the Hamilton mansion without looking back.

The air outside, even on a grey Long Island afternoon, felt fresh, clean.

Kyler, I imagined, felt a surge of liberation.

He'd shed an unwanted attachment, a reminder of his own vulnerabilities.

He probably went back to his suite, ordered his favorite meal, and didn't give me another thought.

Perhaps he'd joke about it later with one of his few, sycophantic friends.

"Fired my human stress ball. Cost me a whole dollar to get rid of her."

He wouldn't notice the subtle shifts in his environment.

The tea that was always brewed just right.

The quiet way his scattered books were always tidied.

The almost imperceptible anticipation of his needs.

He'd always seen me as a function, not a person.

A tool. And now, a discarded one.

The one dollar. That was my worth in his eyes.

A symbolic gesture of ultimate contempt.

He wouldn't understand that the wound wasn't the dismissal.

It was the public, casual cruelty. The delight he took in my humiliation.

He was probably already planning his next distraction, his next purchase, his next fleeting amusement.

My absence would be a minor inconvenience, easily remedied by hiring someone new.

Someone else to absorb his moods, to be the silent recipient of his casual barbs.

He wouldn't feel a thing. Not yet.