Chapter 3

"A first edition of 'The Wealth of Nations' ," Mr. Henderson said, his voice grim. "It's worth a small fortune. And you were the only one working in that section." Old rumors, whispers I hadn't heard in thirty years, suddenly felt fresh. People at the library already saw me as the woman who had trapped a promising young diplomat, the source of a scandal. This new accusation fit neatly into the narrative they had already written for me. I didn't defend myself. I knew it was useless. In my first life, I had protested, cried, and sworn my innocence. It had only made me look more guilty.

This time, I just stood there, my silence a wall against their judgment.

Mr. Henderson sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, Eleanor, given your... situation, this looks very bad." He didn't have to say what "situation" he meant. He picked up the phone. "I have no choice but to call your husband."

I waited in a state of detached calm. I expected David to be furious, to see this as another stain on his pristine reputation. When he arrived, his expression was unreadable. Mr. Henderson explained the situation, his tone implying that David was there to collect his wayward wife. I braced myself for the humiliation.

But David surprised me. "I can assure you, Mr. Henderson, my wife is not a thief," he said, his voice firm and authoritative. "There must be some mistake. We will, of course, compensate the library for its loss if the book is not found, but I will not have Eleanor's name slandered." A flicker of hope ignited within me. It was so unexpected, so different from the man I knew. For a moment, I felt a warmth spread through my chest, a gratitude so intense it almost brought me to tears.

The feeling was short-lived. Once we were in the car, the mask of the supportive husband dropped. The silence was thick and cold. "Did you take it?" he asked, not even looking at me.

The question was like a slap. "No," I said, my voice hollow.

"It doesn't matter," he said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "What matters is that you've caused another problem. First the scene at dinner, now this. Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? On my career?" His support hadn't been for me. It had been for him. He was protecting his asset, his image. The brief warmth I'd felt turned to ice. He was the same man. He would always be the same man.

The next day, I was fired. The news spread through our small social circle like wildfire. When I went to the grocery store, I could feel the stares, hear the whispers. "That's her. David Vance's wife. The thief." The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on me. I kept my head high, my face a blank mask, but inside, I was crumbling.

That evening, I couldn't bear to be in the apartment. I went for a walk, my feet leading me to the park near our building. And then I saw them. David and Clara, sitting on a bench, their heads close together. I ducked behind a large oak tree, my heart pounding.

"She's making things so difficult, David," Clara was saying, her voice a soft, manipulative purr. "I don't know how you put up with her. She's always been so... unstable."

"I know," David sighed, and the weariness in his voice cut me deeper than any anger could have. "I'm handling it. It's just... a complication."

"She ruined everything," Clara whispered, placing a hand on his. "We could have been happy."

I felt the world tilt on its axis. He didn't pull his hand away. He just sat there, letting her comfort him. He was the victim. I was the complication. The pain was so intense, so familiar, it was hard to breathe. I backed away slowly, silently, before they could see me. When I got back to the apartment, David was already there. He looked up as I came in. "Where have you been?" he asked, his tone accusatory.

I didn't answer him. I walked past him into the bedroom and closed the door. I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He was used to my tears, my pleas for understanding. He wasn't used to my silence. He wasn't used to my indifference. For the first time, I think he truly saw me, and he didn't know what to make of the woman standing before him.