Chapter 3

I don't know how long I was in the pump house.

Time became a meaningless concept, marked only by the cycles of shivering and numbness.

When the bolt finally scraped back, the sliver of gray morning light that sliced into the darkness felt like a physical blow.

Ethan stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking down at me as if I were an insect.

"I hope you've had time to reflect," he said, his voice cool and distant.

I couldn't speak.

My lips were cracked, my throat raw.

I just stared at him from the floor where I had collapsed.

"Get up," he commanded.

"Go clean yourself up. We're hosting a charity gala tonight. You will be there. You will smile, and you will act as if nothing is wrong. Scarlett needs to see that we are a united front."

His words were absurd.

He was offering a twisted kind of "forgiveness" that was really just another form of control.

He wanted to parade me around, a testament to his power to break and then rebuild his possessions.

With what little strength I had, I pulled myself to my feet, using the damp wall for support.

That evening, I stood in front of the mirror, a stranger in a glittering designer gown.

The dress was a gift from Ethan, a pathetic attempt at material compensation.

It hung on my emaciated frame, and the diamonds around my neck felt like a collar.

My face was a pale, haunted mask that no amount of makeup could hide.

Downstairs, the sound of the orchestra and the chatter of guests filled the mansion.

It was a grand spectacle designed to "make up" for my suffering, but I felt nothing but a cold, hollow ache.

Ethan appeared at the door, perfectly tailored in a black tuxedo.

Scarlett was on his arm, looking radiant in a blood-red dress.

She met my eyes in the mirror, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

"You look... better, Chloe," she said, the condescension thick in her voice.

"Ethan was so worried about you."

"Come," Ethan said, holding out his other arm.

"We need to make an appearance. Together."

Being forced to stand between them, to smile for the cameras and accept condolences for the "tragic accident" with the dog, was a new level of humiliation.

I was a prop in their perfect little play.

Later in the evening, Scarlett approached me by the champagne fountain.

She was holding a small, velvet-wrapped box.

"I have something for you," she said, her voice soft and conspiratorial.

"A peace offering."

I didn't want anything from her, but refusing would cause a scene.

I took the box and opened it.

Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was my mother's silver locket.

It was the only thing I had left of her.

I had kept it in a locked jewelry box in my private dressing room.

My blood ran cold.

How did she get it?

"I found it," Scarlett said, as if reading my mind.

"I thought you might want to wear it. A reminder of family."

Before I could react, she took it from the box.

"Here, let me help you." Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, and then she "accidentally" dropped it.

The locket hit the marble floor with a sickening crack.

It sprang open, but instead of the tiny, smiling photos of my parents, a stream of black, foul-smelling dirt spilled out.

The room seemed to tilt.

She had not just broken it, she had desecrated it.

She had opened it, removed my most precious memories, and filled it with filth.

It was a message, a violation of the deepest and most sacred part of me.

"Oh, my goodness!" Scarlett gasped, covering her mouth with her hand in a perfect imitation of shock.

"I'm so, so clumsy. I'm sorry, Chloe."

I didn't hear her.

I dropped to my knees, oblivious to the guests, the music, the splintering of my dignity.

My only focus was the broken locket and the dirt staining the white marble.

My mother's grave.

The dirt was from my mother's grave.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical impact.

I reached for the pieces, my hands trembling.

The broken edges of the silver were sharp.

They sliced into my palms and fingers, but I didn't feel the pain.

I just kept trying to scoop the dirt and the ruined metal together, as if I could somehow put my memories, my mother, my entire life, back together again.

Blood welled up from the cuts, mixing with the grave dirt on my hands.

It was a grotesque tableau of my utter devastation.