Chapter 3

Returning to the sprawling, minimalist house Mark and I shared felt like stepping onto a stage. Every day was a performance. The house, once my sanctuary, now felt like a beautifully decorated prison, and I was its primary inmate, playing the part of the helpless victim. The air was thick with unspoken truths, and the silence was louder than any argument.

Mark was a master of feigned concern. He hovered, his touch gentle, his words soaked in a pity that now turned my stomach.

"Let me get that for you, Ava."

"Careful on the stairs, baby."

But I saw the subtle shifts he thought I was blind to. I saw him angle his phone away whenever a text came in. I caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes when I asked for something that interrupted what he was doing. I smelled the faint, sweet scent of Chloe' s perfume on his shirt when he came home late from a "board meeting."

He was a terrible liar, but he had a confident audience. He believed so fully in my blindness that he had grown careless.

My act had to be perfect. I practiced moving through the house with a believable hesitation, my hands outstretched, lightly brushing against walls and furniture. I learned to keep my gaze unfocused, directed toward the sound of a person' s voice, never directly at their eyes. It was exhausting. Every moment was a tightrope walk between my secret knowledge and his oblivious deception.

Chloe' s visits were the hardest part. She would come over, her voice dripping with syrupy sympathy, her presence a toxic cloud in the room.

"Oh, Ava, you poor, poor thing," she' d say, her hand resting on my arm in a gesture of fake comfort. "It just breaks my heart to see you like this."

She would sit across from me, and I would watch her. I watched her eyes dart to Mark whenever he was in the room, a shared, secret glance that lasted only a second. I watched her subtly rearrange a pillow on his side of the sofa, a gesture of casual ownership.

"Mark has been so worried," she' d continue, her voice a weapon disguised as a comfort. "I keep telling him he needs to take care of himself too. Don't you worry about a thing, Ava. I' m here. I' ll make sure he' s okay."

The implication was clear. I' m taking care of him now. You can' t.

One afternoon, she brought over a fashion magazine.

"I know you can't see it," she said, her voice full of false brightness, "but I'll describe the pictures to you. The new fall collections are just divine. It' s a shame you' ll miss the season' s galas. You always looked so beautiful at them."

Each word was a carefully placed jab. A reminder of the world I was now excluded from. A world she was now free to occupy by Mark' s side.

I had to sit there, my face a mask of placid gratitude. "That' s so sweet of you, Chloe. Thank you."

Inside, a storm was raging. The urge to stand up, to look her dead in the eye and tell her I knew everything, was a physical force. I could feel my hands clenching into fists under the blanket draped over my lap. My jaw ached from the effort of keeping my expression serene.

I had to hold on. My plan was in motion. Sarah was preparing the legal documents. Louis was expecting me in Paris. Every day I spent in this house, playing this part, was one day closer to freedom.

So I let Chloe talk. I let her describe the beautiful dresses I couldn't wear and the glamorous parties I couldn't attend. I let her subtly flaunt her victory, her conquest of my husband and my life.

I let her believe she had won.

Because I knew something she didn' t.

Her victory was temporary. My revenge would be permanent. And the best performances always save the biggest twist for the final act.