Chapter 3

Sabrina came down the stairs the next morning, wearing one of my old cashmere robes. She walked over to the fireplace, pointing at the portrait of my parents that had hung there for years.

"Ethan, darling," she cooed, "I was thinking. This old painting is so dreary. I found a lovely modern piece that would look much better here. It's more... us."

Ethan, playing his part, nodded vaguely. "Of course, whatever you think is best."

He looked at me, expecting a reaction, a fight. He wanted to see me hurt.

I just smiled, a small, empty smile. "It's a beautiful painting," I said to Sabrina. "But you're right. It doesn't belong here anymore."

Her eyes narrowed, confused by my lack of resistance. She wanted a scene, a drama to prove her victory. I gave her nothing.

Ethan slammed his coffee cup down on the counter, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Why are you being so agreeable? It's not like you."

I just shrugged and walked out of the room. Their little power plays felt distant, like a show I was no longer watching.

I spent the day in a forced proximity to them, a spectator to their cloying intimacy. They held hands in the living room. He fed her a strawberry at lunch. I felt nothing. My mind was a cold, clean slate, focused only on the logistics of my escape. I planned the tides of the Potomac River, the timing of the news leak, the contents of the note I would leave behind.

Later that afternoon, Sabrina found me in the library. She wanted to twist the knife.

"You know," she said, leaning against a bookshelf, "he told me once, back in high school, that you reminded him of me. That's why he married you. You were just a substitute, a placeholder until he could have the real thing."

I knew she was lying, trying to provoke me. But a part of her words struck a painful, buried chord. Had I been that blind? Had I ignored the signs because I wanted the fairy tale to be real? The thought caused a deep, familiar ache in my chest, a final ghost of the woman I used to be.

But the ghost was fading.

"Is that so?" I said, my voice flat. "Well, he has the real thing now. I hope you're both very happy."

Her face fell, her victory soured by my indifference. She had expected tears, rage. She got nothing.