Chapter 2

A sliver of sunlight warmed her face. Elizebeth slowly opened her eyes. For a moment, she felt a fleeting sense of warmth, a brief illusion of hope.

Then she looked up.

Floyd and Jaylah were standing on the second-floor balcony, looking down at her. Floyd held a cup of coffee, his expression unreadable. Jaylah clung to his arm, a smug smile on her face.

He looked at her as if she were a piece of trash on his pristine lawn.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Elizebeth forced herself to sit up, suppressing the wave of humiliation and pain that washed over her. Her body was stiff and sore, her face still burning from the slaps.

"The dress is mended," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Jaylah pouted, feigning concern. "Oh, Elizebeth, your hands... they' re bleeding all over it. How can I possibly wear this now?"

She took the dress from Elizebeth' s weak grasp. Her eyes scanned the fabric, and a look of disgust crossed her face. "There's blood on the seams. It's ruined."

"Jaylah is a perfectionist," Floyd said, his tone still cold. He didn't even glance at Elizebeth's bleeding hands. "You should have been more careful."

He looked at her with contempt. "You can't even do a simple task right."

He gestured to a housekeeper. "Take her to the guest room. Don't let her wander around."

Then he turned to Jaylah, his voice softening instantly. "Don't mind it, my love. We'll go shopping today. You can have any dress you want."

The contrast was like a knife to Elizebeth's heart. He treated his dog with more affection than he showed her.

As the housekeeper pulled her to her feet, Jaylah spoke again, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Floyd, darling, I feel a bit chilly. Could you get my scarf?"

Jaylah pointed to a soft, cashmere scarf draped over the balcony railing. It was a familiar shade of gray.

Elizebeth froze. She knew that scarf. She had spent a month knitting it for Floyd's birthday two years ago, choosing the finest yarn, her fingers aching as she worked on the intricate pattern. It was a symbol of her love, a piece of her heart.

Floyd glanced at it dismissively. "That old thing? It doesn't suit you, Jaylah. It's cheap."

"But it's so soft," Jaylah cooed, wrapping it around her neck. She looked directly at Elizebeth, her eyes glinting with triumph. "I found it in a box in your closet. You were going to throw it away, weren't you?"

Floyd shrugged. "It's just some old junk. I don't even remember where it came from."

Elizebeth wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him, I made that for you. It took me a month. Don't you remember?

But her voice was stuck in her throat.

"I don't like it," Floyd said, pulling the scarf from Jaylah's neck. "It looks tacky." He turned to the housekeeper. "Throw this out."

The housekeeper took the scarf. Elizebeth watched, her eyes wide with disbelief, as the woman walked to the edge of the balcony and simply dropped it. The gray scarf fluttered down, landing in a dirty pile of melting snow and mud by the curb.

The last piece of her love, discarded like garbage.

The pain in her heart was so intense it felt physical. It was as if his hands were squeezing her lungs, crushing the air out of them.

The housekeeper grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the house. Elizebeth didn't resist. She was an empty shell, all hope extinguished.