Chapter 2

When Mark finally came home that evening, hours late, he feigned concern.

"Chloe, darling, what happened with Ethan? Mrs. Albright called, sounded quite distressed."

He put his briefcase down, his eyes scanning me, assessing.

"He said I wasn't his real mother. That I was charity."My voice was flat.

Mark sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair."Kids say things. You know how he is. You probably provoked him somehow."

There it was. The blame always shifts to me.

"And Izzy wants to change the drapes?"I asked, keeping my tone even.

"Oh, that. Yes, she has such an eye for these things. The house does need a bit of a refresh, don't you think?"

He didn't see the problem. Or he didn't care.

The next day, Izzy was there, in our home, as if she owned it. She breezed past me with a cool smile, a tape measure in her hand.

"Mark darling, the light in the west wing is just dreadful for these fabric swatches."

She was redecorating. My home.

Ethan trailed after her like a puppy.

"Izzy, can we get a new game console? Chloe never lets me get the good ones."

"Of course, sweetie, "Izzy cooed, ruffling his hair."We'll get you whatever you want."

She looked at me then, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

I felt like a stranger in my own house. Trapped.

Eleanor Harrison arrived for her weekly unannounced inspection, her lips pursed in disapproval as she surveyed Izzy's chosen fabric samples.

"Well, Isabelle, at least someone around here has taste," Eleanor said, her gaze flicking dismissively towards me."Mark was always so fond of you. You understood him."

The implication was clear. I didn't.

I remembered years ago, shortly after Mark and I were married. He'd been"working late" constantly. I found out he was meeting Izzy.

He'd sworn it was nothing, just old friends catching up. Eleanor had backed him up, of course.

"Mark needs someone who understands the pressures of his world, Chloe. Izzy is from that world."

Now, Izzy was back, more entrenched than ever.

She even started wearing some of my clothes, things Mark had bought me, claiming they were"just her style" and I" never wore them anyway."

The audacity was breathtaking. Mark said nothing.

Ethan, emboldened, became crueler.

One afternoon, I heard a crash from the living room. I rushed in.

My grandfather's music box lay shattered on the marble floor. Ethan stood over it, a smirk on his face.

"Oops, "he said, not sounding sorry at all."It slipped."

Izzy, lounging on the sofa, tutted."Boys will be boys, Chloe. Don't make such a fuss over an old trinket."

An old trinket. It was the only thing I had left of him.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I wouldn't let them see. I carefully picked up the broken pieces.

The melody it once played, a simple folk tune, was silenced. Like my voice in this house.

I looked at Ethan, at Izzy. The disconnect was absolute.

This wasn't a family. It was a performance, and I was the unwanted stagehand.

Mother's Day arrived a few weeks later.

Ethan presented Izzy with a lavishly wrapped gift, a designer scarf.

"Happy Mother's Day, Izzy! You're the best !" he declared, hugging her tightly.

He didn't even look at me. I had a small, handmade card I'd hoped he might give me. It stayed in my pocket.

Later, Eleanor cornered me in the hallway.

"Chloe, e,," she said, her voice like ice."You seem... overwrought lately. Perhaps you're emotionally unstable. Mark and I have been discussing it. A little rest, perhaps? At a private clinic. For your good, of course."

The threat was clear. They wanted me gone, one way or another.

My resolve, already firm, solidified into cold, hard anger.

I would not break. I would not be committed.

I would escape.